Paragon
by AnneGirl5283
Summary: "It was not a sudden passionate embrace or the thought of another man or even a slow realization of a change that shook Sherlock Holmes to the core and toppled every belief about love and sentiment. It was a phone call. One single phone call from Detective Inspector Lestrade."
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Copious amounts of gratitude to MizJoely for agreeing to beta this story and allaying my fears that I had written a bunch of nonsense. Mille grazie!**

* * *

**Paragon**

It was not a sudden passionate embrace or the thought of another man or even a slow realization of a change that shook Sherlock Holmes to the core and toppled every belief about love and sentiment.

It was a phone call.

One single phone call from Detective Inspector Lestrade.

"Case?" Sherlock said immediately.

"No, not exactly." Lestrade's voice was hesitant.

"Then why are you calling?" he asked, annoyed at being bothered when he was about to set a mobile phone on fire.

"We need you to identify a body," Lestrade answered in a rush.

Sherlock's brow pulled tight, glancing over at John sitting on the couch, editing his blog. John was here, on loan from Mary for the day, safe. Mrs. Hudson had just delivered tea. His brain offered nothing but confusion.

"Where?"

There was a deep pause.

"At Molly's."

His skin crawled and he did not understand why. He swallowed hard as he found himself admitting a fault.

"I don't know her address," he said slowly, his tone drawing a curious look from John.

"Forty Seven-Forty Nine Charlotte Road. You'll… you'll find us."

The dial tone left him immobile. The phone seemed very heavy in his hand as he returned it to his trouser pocket, movement faltering. He glanced at the experimental phone sitting on his workstation, torch lying next to it waiting to be used. It seemed very unimportant at the moment, the excitement from just minutes ago snuffed out.

"Sherlock?"

John's voice startled him, but only the flit of his eyes in his friend's direction showed it. It released him from his immobility, feet moving automatically towards the coat rack to grab his Belstaff and scarf.

"Where are you going?" John called as he scrambled to put his laptop on the coffee table and follow Sherlock.

"Out."

His mind told him that anything could be waiting for him at the flat, but the arresting pull in his stomach betrayed the fact that he knew beyond a doubt what it would be. He honestly was not sure he would be able to handle John witnessing him in the situation that surely waited. There was nothing for it; John caught up and threw questions at him until Sherlock told him to shut up so he could think. Mostly he wanted to think about how he was suddenly not prepared for the prospect of this case.

His footing felt unsure as he climbed from the cab, the bite of winter still hanging in the early spring air, but he maintained an outward appearance of control in his approach to the building. None of the waiting officers looked at him. John was close on his heel as they made their way up the stairs to the second floor of flats.

"Sherlock, this is Molly's place. What is going on?" he asked insistently under his breath. Sherlock's chest pulled tightly at the untimely realization that John had been here and he had not.

"They found a body," Sherlock finally managed.

Anderson and Donovan flanked the door to the small flat. Their silence and downcast eyes left Sherlock's blood running cold. Lestrade waited for them just inside, face drawn.

"What are the details?" Sherlock asked mechanically.

"Sherlock, you might need to take a moment - "

"The details, Lestrade," he said curtly.

Lestrade looked at him with concern and a tightened jaw before nodding once and leading him past the small kitchenette and into the living room.

Sherlock bit down against the race of his heart as the white sheet came into few. It was a wholly unnerving sensation, exceeding that which he had felt when he saw explosives strapped to John, when he came home to find Mrs. Hudson held at gunpoint. No one in his circle had ever… he had never been too late before…

"Stamford contacted us when she didn't show up for her shift last night," Lestrade said with only a touch of the business as usual tone he used at other scenes. He glanced once more at Sherlock before reaching down and pulling at the sheet. Sherlock heard John's whispered swear behind him. His own eyes blinked a bit too rapidly. "Blunt force trauma to the face… single gunshot wound to the chest. Her wallet, jewelry, and electronics are gone. At the moment we are thinking home invasion gone wrong. With the damage to… we figured you would be the best one to call in to make the identification."

It was not nearly as bad as Irene Adler's supposed injuries. He did not know why that should be the thought in his mind, as though the lessened severity of what he saw in front of him somehow spared Molly, for he was almost certain it was her. A blood test would easily confirm. Somehow in the time he had worked with her at St. Bart's, the details had stuck: the calluses on her fingers from holding metal instruments all day, the freckle on her neck below her jaw, the small scar on the back of her right hand, the delicate curve of her chin, and why was he suddenly pulled to run his hand through the long brown hair that was spilled across the floor? It wouldn't comfort her. It certainly wouldn't comfort him – would it?

"It's her."

Damn the shake in his voice.

* * *

"Sherlock."

"Mm?"

"They've finished up."

He blinked away the fog of half an hour of hard deduction. He'd moved without direction through the flat almost a dozen times and the response team had jumped out of his way at his very approach. It was the most accommodating the team had ever been at a scene. Too bad he had nothing to show for it. It was a textbook random robbery, right down to the jimmied bedroom window above the fire escape.

It was perfect.

Why was it perfect?

Why the violence?

"I need more time," he told John, vaguely aware that they were the last two remaining in the living room.

"Yeah. It's just, actually, Lestrade needs to secure the place…" John trailed off at the look in Sherlock's eyes as his gaze drifted over to the doctor. He blinked at the naked pleading in his look. "Right. Right, I'll tell him a bit more time, then."

With that, Sherlock was left alone in what was Molly Hooper's flat.

The silence mocked him and a swell of guilt rushed his body. He had never set foot in the building, not even to say thank you for her part in helping him fake his suicide. Standing in the flat, he realized his simple evaluations of her over the years had only served to tell him what he felt he needed to know about her. Thirty minutes in her flat had flooded every empty space in his deductions. She was a bit messy, but organized. She held onto memories and keepsakes. Well read. Penchant for the romantic in all forms of entertainment. And she really did like cats.

No family.

She was lonely.

_Had_ been lonely.

Her smiling face swam in his vision and for a moment he honestly thought he was going to be sick. Gulping in a breath of air, he backed out of the flat that offered him no clues and no promises of being able to make any sort of sense out of her death.

Lestrade's barely veiled emotional chatter followed him as John and he walked down the stairs to street level.

"Hopefully something comes from ballistics, and we've got at least a partial print from the window… next of kin is an great-aunt in Surrey… both parents dead, only child - Christ, I had no idea…"

Sherlock drew to a sudden stop in the doorway.

"Her possessions, were they valuable?" he asked abruptly.

"Sorry?" Lestrade gave him a confused look.

"Were her possessions valuable?" Sherlock asked again, looking to John. His friend gave an unsure shrug.

"I was only here once, with Mary," he said, glancing up in the direction of the flat as though it would help his memory. "She had a fairly decent television. Stereo system, newish looking laptop - "

"Who would bother to rob someone with mediocre electronics, let alone murder them," Sherlock posited. He felt his irritation rise at the look exchanged between the DI and John.

"People desperate for money will do desperate things, Sherlock," Lestrade placated. "Maybe they singled her out as an easy target…"

"An easy… are you going to resort to the laziest explanation possible?" Sherlock asked in frustration.

"We are going to look at every shred of evidence and do everything we can to bring this bastard to justice," Lestrade told him, clipboard poised to emphasize his point. "If you have anything you'd like to add to aid that investigation, tell me now."

"Robbery does not make sense," he said slowly, patronizing. Lestrade's face fell slightly.

"I need more to go on than that and you know it."

He turned and crossed the sidewalk to the waiting police car.

"I didn't realize you had placed your head back in your ass when it came to listening to what I have to say," Sherlock called after him, turning the heads of several nearby officers.

"Sherlock," John warned, placing a hand on his friend's arm.

Lestrade turned swiftly and walked back towards the two men, leveling his hard gaze at Sherlock as he leaned in.

"We are all upset here," he said roughly. "And believe me when I say that punishment will land heavy on whoever did this. You behaving like a pompous wanker is not going to help anything. Do right by her, Sherlock… go home and cool your head off."

* * *

Sherlock stormed up the stairs at Baker Street and swept into the room, depositing his coat and scarf on his chair before picking up his violin. The Swan, Saint-Saens – interesting his hands should choose that piece. He gripped the bow a little more tightly than usual, blaming the shaking of his hand on being so ridiculously dismissed from the investigation. He needed the music to pull his mind back into focus, to go over every detail that he had seen in her flat and to shut out the memory of her small form on the floor of the living room.

Caring wouldn't help.

Caring would not help.

"So that's it, then?" John asked from the middle of the room. He gestured to the violin. "You're just going to…"

"Thinking, John," Sherlock replied, facing resolutely towards the window but not really seeing the world outside.

"Yes, I understand that, but my God, Sherlock, can you take a moment to be a human being and react to this. Our colleague, our _friend_," John lectured, his voice growing heavy with emotion. "She's dead."

"I do comprehend that fact," Sherlock assured him, his bow pausing briefly as he spoke. "The only thing I can do for her now is to find out what really happened. If no one thinks that's enough to serve her memory, then I am truly sorry."

The look from John was one he interpreted as empathetic and quite sad. He knew he had made his point, though. John would not press him further on the subject. He did not have to fake the remorse in the look he gave in return.

"You should be on your way home to Mary," he told him. "Best if she hears the news from you, I should think."

He took up the bow again and continued what was quickly becoming a requiem in his mind. John's soft footsteps echoed as he made his way into the hall and down the stairs.

Sherlock played for as long as he could stand it. There was truth in what he told John – he wanted to think. The fact that he spent half the time thinking about her laughter, the mad attempts at fashionable hairstyles, her nervous conversation, her ability to read him like it was nothing… that was inconsequential.

It was past sunset by the time he finally put down his instrument, fingertips numb from the effort. There was a strange emptiness inside him as he walked through 221B and into his bedroom, a vexation he could not name. He toed off his shoes and lay down in his bed, ankles crossed and hands folded across his stomach. The technicalities of the day were starting to settle in and he found himself pondering life without Molly.

Who was he going to work with at Bart's? Every other pathologist hated him. She had made life so easy, now it would be all muddled.

John would surely say he was being selfish.

But why shouldn't he be worried about those details? Why shouldn't he try to determine exactly how he was going to get on without Molly Hooper in his life?

Why were his cheeks wet?

Oh.

He appeared to be crying.

He swiped a hand over his face quickly and looked at the moisture clinging to his fingertips, picking up the light from the security lamps outside the building.

Apparently he was going to miss her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Oh, erm, I should have mentioned that this is definitely a multi-chapter fic... bad writer *slaps hand* **

**Stick with me, Sherlollies, and thank you so much for reading this one!  
**

* * *

It had not occurred to Sherlock that six in the morning would be too early to be rapping on the door of John and Mary's flat the next day, but by the time the door was swung open it was too late to reconsider.

"We need to go to her office," he rattled off before the door had even fully opened. He looked down at the rumpled woman standing in the doorway. "Mary, you're not John. Where's John?"

"He told me this was about as close to grief as you got. Come on in, then," Mary pulled him by the sleeve of his coat and forced a cup of tea on him as John made his way out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. Both looked weary and red eyed. For a brief moment, Sherlock envied them the comfort of company in grief.

"What are you on about, Sherlock?" John asked sleepily as he reached for the kettle.

"There was nothing at her flat and with her laptop and phone gone the office is the only place left to seek out any information," Sherlock explained.

"I'm sure Lestrade will be checking it out himself," John said.

"Exactly, which is why we need to get there first before he makes a mess of it," Sherlock said unkindly. He saw what was becoming a popular look pass between John and Mary. "You seem to have some doubt," he commented curtly.

"I think," John started, taking a deep breath. "I think you are in shock and you don't know it, Sherlock. And you're dealing with it the only way you know, which is to try to make this into something it's not. Because you can control it if it's a mystery to be solved."

Sherlock scoffed, but found to his utter horror that he had no response. His eyes narrowed slightly.

"Are you coming or not?" he asked John. The doctor and his wife shared another look before John sighed.

"Give me ten minutes."

Given the early hour, the halls of St. Bart's pathology department were nearly deserted. The few staff in attendance had clearly not heard the news as they smiled politely in passing and went about their usual business as John and Sherlock made their way to Molly's office. John stood guard as the detective scoured every detail in the small space. He easily hacked into her computer and was growing frustrated by the mundane contents when he noticed the flashing light on her office phone. Pushing the play button, he waited anxiously.

"_Doctor Hooper, this is Professor Mahon. I'm sorry, I didn't know how else to contact you…. Umm, at any rate, I'm sorry we missed each other today. I hope that we can meet soon."_

The woman's Irish lilt sounded shaken. Sherlock double-checked the date and time of the message and felt the hair on his arms prickle as he realized it was from the evening of Molly's death. He glanced at John and saw the look of curiosity and concern begin to edge its way onto his face. Whipping out his phone, he made for the door and John fell in step as he walked briskly down the hall.

"That can't mean anything," John muttered, pondering out loud. "Coincidence, isn't it? Has to be… how can it not be?"

"Hardly any Professor Mahon's in London," Sherlock replied, his gaze intense as he handed his phone over to John. "And only one female. Fionnula Mahon at King's College. Microbiology department."

"Colleague?"

"Doubtful. Did you hear her voice? They're unacquainted and she was worried about something."

It was a short walk to the nearby university and the campus was just coming alive with students and faculty for the start of morning classes. Sherlock wasted no time in finding the correct building and tracking down office he sought. The door was open and he knocked on the doorframe out of mere courtesy before he and John walked into the room. A middle aged woman with curling dark hair and pale skin was seated at the desk opposite the door, surrounded by piles of papers and books, knick knacks of all things academia and scientific scattered on bookshelves between volumes. Her pale blue eyes looked up as they entered.

Sherlock immediately saw the redness framing the irises of her eyes, the unnatural lack of color in her skin extending beyond a general pale complexion, the slight tremor in her hand as she held her pen.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Sherlock Holmes, Scotland Yard, and my colleague John Watson," he said with a bit of a flourish. No harm in appearing official, he could deal with Lestrade's lecture later. "We're inquiring about your association with Doctor Molly Hooper."

The bluntness of his statement clearly took her by surprise. Professor Mahon's eyes blinked rapidly and her hand clenched around the pen, her mouth opening to form words that were slow in coming.

"My association with…?" she repeated the words back, casting a glance at the open door. "Well, I, I am currently researching the behavior of certain microbes in the stages after death… I was put in touch with her as a potential consultant in the field of pathology."

"And you were to meet with her the evening before last?" he asked, his eyes moving swiftly about the room and taking in every detail.

"For coffee, yes," the professor answered, her voice calming as the conversation evened out. Her brow furrowed slightly. "She didn't show up. I was hoping to reschedule."

"You won't be able to. She was killed."

It sounded cold, even to him. John cleared his throat roughly beside him and Professor Mahon looked horrified.

"Killed?" she whispered.

"Home invasion," John stepped in before Sherlock could say anything further. "Of course, we're looking into all her activity recently… searching for any clues."

"I wish I had anything to offer," she said quietly. "I didn't even know her."

Sherlock did not know what possessed him to ask the question, but found the words leaving his mouth without thought.

"When did your husband pass?"

He doubted it had anything to do with the circumstances. The curiosity came from a different place entirely, one that he was unable to pinpoint.

"I'm sorry?" Professor Mahon looked startled.

"Sherlock, really," John muttered, dropping his head in embarrassment.

"Two pictures from a cancer marathon, one with him, one without," Sherlock continued, blind to his blunder, pointing out the items. "Orange ribbon tacked to the wall – leukemia."

She stared at him for a moment and Sherlock wasn't entirely sure she wouldn't throw them out of her office.

"Two years ago," she finally replied softy. The lingering sadness in her voice caused his demeanor to soften.

"My deepest sympathies," he told her before he turned sharply and exited the room.

John hurried after him, casting a disapproving look in his direction.

"What in hell was that about?" he demanded.

"Did you see her? Looks like she hasn't slept in days, jumpy, hands shaking from being hyped up on too much caffeine."

"So you think she's hiding something?"

"I had thought… of course, it's also possible that she's grieving the second anniversary of her husband's death. Those marathon's are usually held around this time of year and the woman in that photo had the face of the recently widowed."

John absorbed his words.

"Molly is… was a great pathologist," he said awkwardly. "It wouldn't be out of the scope of possibility for her expertise to be leant to any research."

Sherlock nodded and remained silent.

"It was a long shot, Sherlock," John offered as consolation, clapping a supportive hand on his friend's shoulder. Sherlock swallowed hard and forced his face to remain stoic.

* * *

Sherlock bore the wrist slap from Lestrade in regards to tampering with Molly's office and his rogue investigation. It was difficult to be annoyed at the DI when he had delivered his admonition with the look of a man who just wanted to sit down and have a good cry. Sherlock's usual dismissal of such sentiment was absent for the time being and he found himself taking pity on the man.

What he couldn't seem to understand was why everyone was suddenly stricken with the need to ask if he was all right. Of course he wasn't all right, he'd lost one of the greatest assets in his life over the passing need to obtain valuables. It was most certainly not all right. The fact that he could hardly think about anything else was tremendously not all right.

For the entire week between Molly's death and her funeral, Mrs. Hudson fluttered sadly about 221B, doing his chores and making his meals without any of the usual comments. John and Mary were there nearly every day, talking with Mrs. Hudson and sharing memories about Molly until Sherlock couldn't stand the incessant memoriam a moment longer and shut himself in his room. It wasn't until everyone had gone in the evening and he was left alone that his head would drop into his hands and the reality of the situation would sink, deeper and deeper, into his mind. He was tormented by a question that had been spinning in his mind since King's College, desperate to ask Fionnula Mahon but lacking the ability to put words to emotions until now.

How does one recover from such a loss? How does one survive?

The day before Molly's funeral, Anderson pulled a match to the fingerprint found on the window.

Sherlock watched from the shadows of the observation room as the young man, rough around the edges but obviously terrified, confessed to the break in, the robbery, and to attacking Molly when she had come home unexpectedly. He identified the gun found in his flat, a match to the bullet at the scene, as his own.

It brought a disturbing finality to everything, but not nearly as much as the funeral.

Closed casket. It was expected, but it still made him feel as though goodbye was impossible.

He knew he probably looked borderline angry and John spent the better part of the morning acting as intermediary when people tried to approach. The colleagues, friends, and a few distant family members faded in and out as his mind continually drifted to the seconds before he plummeted from Bart's. He searched for the reason for the surfacing memory. It was so overwhelmingly wrapped up in John and it was ages before he finally pieced it together. Under all his fear that day had been the steady faith in Molly. He knew, beyond a doubt, that she would always be there for him, waiting for him at the bottom of that building. In that moment, he had no reason to be afraid because of his trust in her.

And now she was gone.

The moment the earth closed over her, he withdrew from the crowd and went home, not knowing when he would feel the desire to leave again.

In the dark of evening, Mycroft appeared in his doorway. He surely presented a pitiable sight, curled into his chair in front of a dying fire, his second glass of scotch in his hand.

"We're not going to have a repeat of The Woman, are we?" Mycroft asked coolly as he took a seat in John's chair.

"How could we? Adler's alive."

"I'm going to pretend you're not privy to that particular information," Mycroft said after a moment.

"My well being must be of great concern tonight for you to come here in person," Sherlock said dully.

"Your well being is always of great concern to me, dear brother. But particularly on the night you've laid to a rest a close friend."

Sherlock glanced up at the sincerity in Mycroft's voice. His brother was studying him with a bit of affection.

"It's impressive to me, Sherlock, how you've nurtured relationships I always assumed you did not want. I am truly sorry she was taken from you," he finished quietly.

Sherlock said nothing, but let his brother stay.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you for ALL the reviews and for continuing to read this story!**

* * *

To say he had been avoiding St. Bart's would have been putting too mild a label on it. After taking a case that barely rated a four and only worked to frustrate him, Sherlock turned down every subsequent case offered in the few weeks following the funeral. John seemed determined to get him out of the flat and away from his experiments and his violin. Sherlock vacillated between annoyance and contrition at John's efforts.

In spite of his best attempts to let the idea go, Sherlock found himself checking up on Professor Mahon. There was no reason other than the thin tie to Molly's last hours and the confusing curiosity about the professor's personal life. When a search on her name brought up a request for a wellness check with the police, his eyes narrowed on the screen of his laptop. The request had been filed that morning.

He text John and met him at the flat listed. The police already had a presence at the building and vaguely familiar officer stopped them as they attempted to cross the police tape.

"Sorry, Mr. Holmes, this is a closed crime scene," he explained.

"Lestrade sent me," Sherlock fibbed easily. The officer gave him an unsure look.

"I wasn't aware that Lestrade wanted consultation on this."

"He always wants my consultation, he just doesn't always know it," Sherlock said coolly as he slid under the tape, John right behind him, leaving a muddled officer in their wake.

"You are going to give Lestrade an ulcer," John warned as they walked towards the first floor flat where the team was milling about.

"So long as his cases are solved correctly," Sherlock replied, sliding past the officers and into the living room of the flat.

Fionnula Mahon was sitting on the plush sofa, body slumped and head tilted on the back of the couch. An empty bottle of what he was certain were sleeping pills and a drained bottle of wine were on the coffee table in front of her.

"She must have been more depressed than we thought," John said quietly.

"Perhaps," Sherlock said, taking in the scene. John moved towards the body.

"Doesn't appear to have suffered any trauma… supports respiratory depression," he observed. Looking down at the coffee table, he pointed towards a slip of paper. "Come look at this, Sherlock."

He walked to the coffee table and looked down at the paper.

"I give up," he read out loud.

"What do you think - "

"Shhh," Sherlock held a hand up and silenced John's question. He cocked his head to one side and furrowed his brow. "Do you hear that?"

"The whirring?" John asked after listening for a moment.

Sherlock turned in a circle and tried hard to ignore the presence of the response team in the room waiting for the medical examiner to arrive and take possession of the body. He spotted the laptop on a cluttered corner desk by the window. The top was tipped up slightly, the glow from the screen faint in the daylight.

"Who neglects to shut down their laptop before swallowing a bottle of pills?" he murmured as he made his way to the computer. "It's carefully planned, you complete things before you go through with it."

"If she wasn't in her right mind, she might have forgotten," John suggested, watching Sherlock open the laptop the rest of the way as the response team busied themselves with helping the newly arrived medical examiner.

"Look around," Sherlock said as he brought the screen to life, slipping a memory stick from the pile of electronic accessories sitting on the desk. He inserted it as he spoke, starting a file transfer. "The lights are all off, the rubbish bin has been emptied, all of the dishes are clean and put away… Not even any unsorted mail. Her phone has been shut down, so why not her laptop?" he asked, picking up the unresponsive mobile from the desk to emphasize his point.

"Maybe she was tidy."

"Maybe she was trying to leave information."

The transfer completed and he retrieved the stick just as Lestrade appeared at the door.

"One of my officers tells me I've been giving out orders to let you investigate," he said sarcastically as he strode towards the two men. "Must've happened in my sleep, 'cause I certainly don't remember it."

"Nothing to investigate," Sherlock shrugged innocently. "Cut and dry suicide."

He brushed past Lestrade and John followed,

"I know why you're here, Sherlock," Lestrade called after him, stopping their exit. "I know you want to see a connection here, but there just isn't. We caught the man. It's over."

* * *

"It's not just a coincidence that the person Molly was supposed to meet with the day she died commits suicide just a few weeks later," Sherlock said insistently as he shoved the memory stick into his laptop. While a small part of his mind had conceded to John's hypothesis of needing to find reason in Molly's death, the circumstances now before them only made him more certain that something else was going on. Even John seemed to doubt the possibility that the events were not connected. "And now there's this – every file on her computer was distinctly and obviously labeled except one."

John watched as Sherlock opened a file bearing the name CRE. The screen brightened as an image of lines and letters appeared. Sherlock's eyes quickly followed the lines linking the molecules of hydrogen, carbon, oxygen, and nitrogen. He felt John shift closer to get a better look.

"That looks like…"

"Antibiotic structure," Sherlock finished for him. He looked in vain for more to the file and grimaced when he realized the structure was the only clue he had. Frustratingly little to go on.

"A microbiologist with a picture of an antibiotic structure," John sighed with resignation, seeming to read Sherlock's state of mind. "Somehow I don't think we'll be drawing Scotland Yard on this one."

"Yes, but why just the one? Why one picture?" Sherlock murmured, unable to let the nagging feeling go despite the walls he continually hit. He leaned back in his chair and placed his fingers below his chin, his mind focusing in on the information before him. "I need to think."

John took his cue and retreated to his old chair, letting Sherlock search his mind.

He didn't have to search long before he zeroed in on something useful.

"Carbapenem-resistant Enterobacteriaceae."

"Come again?"

"Carbapenem-resistant Enterobacteriaceae, or CRE, a strain of bacteria first reported in two thousand and nine as showing extreme resistance to antibiotic treatment," Sherlock said quickly. "Downplayed in the press despite mounting evidence that it could be a massive threat in increasing cases of resistance against that," he pointed at the structure on the screen. "Carbapenem antiobiotics."

Sherlock's phone chimed, taking him out of his revelation. He glanced at the screen.

"Ah," he said dryly. "We're being summoned to the Yard. Apparently we're in a bit of trouble."

* * *

"I have three officers who saw you meddling with the laptop, Sherlock," Lestrade reprimanded, hands firmly on his hips in a most clichéd disapproving posture. "You had no business being at that scene in the first place, let alone nicking evidence. Whatever you took, bloody hand it over."

"You have everything you need for a 'thorough' investigation," Sherlock said with thinly veiled mocking, leaning back casually in the chair in front of Lestrade's desk. "Nothing is missing, I can assure you."

"There is nothing I would like to avoid more than another raid at Baker Street," Lestrade said, leaning over his desk. "Don't make it come to that."

Sherlock snorted.

"Anderson couldn't find an aspirin in a hospital let alone narcotics at Baker Street, just as he's no doubt missed anything useful in these cases," he snapped, drawing a disgruntled huff from said man lingering in the doorway. Sherlock stood swiftly and turned to face him. "Problem? Or did you just pop by for some entertainment since Donovan won't return your calls?"

"We didn't miss a damn thing," Anderson spat out with increasing annoyance. "I'm sorry if you miss your girlfriend, but we didn't muck this up."

"How does it not frustrate you to be so monumentally wrong all the time, Anderson?" Sherlock replied lowly, stepping far into his personal space. The crime scene officer's face went red.

"Back off, freak!" he snapped, shoving at Sherlock's chest.

John leapt up and roughly inserted himself between the two men before Sherlock had the chance to respond; Lestrade put a firm hand on the detective's shoulder and pulled him back, pointing a finger at Anderson.

"Go take a moment, Anderson," he ordered.

The flustered man pulled at his jacket to straighten it out, sparing one last glare at Sherlock before storming out of the room. Lestrade steered Sherlock towards the chair again and forced him into it unceremoniously while John took his place at Sherlock's elbow.

"I know this seems like lunacy," John started, placing a protective hand on the back of Sherlock's chair. "But we have good reason to believe there might be more going on here than meets the eye."

"Good reason or a hunch?" Lestrade asked, his voice tired.

"I don't have hunches, I have observations and deductions that are not being _listened to_," Sherlock nearly yelled, his hand waving sharply in the air before coming to rest under his chin.

"And I have a crime that's already been solved, a killer that's already been jailed, and a depressed woman who simply couldn't stand the loss of her husband any longer," Lestrade responded in exasperation. He visibly collected himself and leaned on the desk. "You're not the only one who misses her, Sherlock… but for God's sake, you've got to let her rest."

Sherlock followed John solemnly out of the building and onto the street, pushing against the doubt that seemed to be creeping in on him from all sides. It wouldn't be the first time he had misstepped and sentiment had clouded his vision… and Molly had been more to him than Irene Adler ever had. This was a common feeling, after all, if his observations were correct; he'd watched John grapple for months with the reality of his 'death.'

When John secured a taxi, Sherlock dismissed the ride in favor of walking, insisting John go on ahead. With a concerned look at his friend, John reluctantly got into the car.

While he walked, Sherlock turned over every small detail he possessed, looking at the events from every angle and desperate to find a connection that wasn't simply an uneasy feeling. When he had exhausted that line of thought, he allowed himself to think about her for the first time in over a week. He had blocked her out, finding that the memory of her left him unable to function as he normally did. The physical reaction to her memory was discomforting: tightening in his throat, a shallow feeling in his chest, and a completely inexplicable desire to wrap his arms around her, just once.

Through his thoughts, he registered the gaze of a stranger on the opposite street corner as he waited for the light to turn. His eyes slid over to take in the man, clad in dark jeans and brown leather jacket, staring blatantly at him. As the traffic shifted, he kept the man in his periphery, making a sharp right once he had crossed the street. A quick glance in the windows of the shop on his left revealed he had picked up not one, but two shadows. Pity for them he knew the twists and turns of this city like it was his own private playground.

He took off down the next alley, hearing the footfalls of the men as they followed. They were more agile than he expected, though he kept a safe distance ahead as he climbed fire escapes, jumped rooftops, and wove through back streets. As his breathing started to labor, he contemplated the possibility that a call to Mycroft might become necessity.

Sherlock's lungs burned with the effort of running, muscles straining to keep him up as he rounded another corner. The roar of a motorbike warned him just in time to skid to a stop, drawing up short as the sleek, black machine screeched to a stop directly in front of him. The driver, clad in full black and matching helmet, turned a concealed head in his direction. Something was shouted at him and lost under the roar of the bike and rush hour London traffic.

"What?" he shouted back.

A gloved hand flew to the visor and yanked it up.

Sherlock nearly fell backwards, his whole body convulsing.

"I said, get on!" Molly shouted again, steady eyes looking beyond him to the men in pursuit rounding the corner. "Now!"

Forcing his body to follow direction through the shock, Sherlock managed to leap onto the bike, wrapping his arms around her waist as she launched them into the streets of London. Perhaps he held on a bit tighter than was necessary, pressing his face into her shoulder to reassure himself that this was real. Through the exhaust, the rubbish, the pub food, and the leather, he could smell her. The scent of orange and spices had never smelled so wonderful before.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Yay, I'm not totally cruel and sadistic! I missed Molly as much as you guys, trust me! Thank you all so, so much for hanging in there and thank you for the unbelievably kind and wonderful reviews. They make my day.**

* * *

They flew through the streets, weaving around cars and buses at a speed that left Sherlock holding his breath and wondering if he had only seen an apparition under the helmet. Molly didn't do anything reckless and she certainly did not drive a sportbike.

_She's also not supposed to be alive_, his brain reminded him.

The air stung his eyes as they traveled, but he was able to make out the signs for Heathrow as the bike hurtled down the motorway. He was more than surprised when she bypassed any sort of public access and drove them through an open gate, security waving her on. At the end of a runway, a small private plane stood waiting.

Molly brought the bike to a screaming halt at the base of the boarding stairs. She pushed against him and he got off quickly, allowing her to do the same. He watched as she removed the helmet and pressed a finger into the Bluetooth on her ear.

"He's with me," she said. "We're getting on the plane to Ben Nevis."

His brain worked to keep up with what was unfolding. Ben Nevis? The rolodex in his mind fluttered until he found the answer – the highest mountain in Scotland.

It answered nothing.

She looked back at him and it took a moment to interpret the look on her face – he had failed to follow as she made her way to the boarding stairs.

For the second time, he forced his body to follow his command to move, coat billowing behind him as he trailed her up the stairs and onto the small aircraft. It had the feeling of government comfort, but was not nearly so luxurious as some he knew to exist. Molly indicated the set of chairs in the middle of the craft and he sat down as he watched her stash her helmet in a luggage bin. The only thing familiar about her was the long ponytail. The black leather jacket, dark jeans, and boots were so wholly incongruous that he had to focus on her face to believe what was in front of him.

The plane rumbled into action and Molly shed her jacket, leaving her in a sleek grey tank top, relaxing into the seat opposite. Sherlock still felt his nerves prickling.

"You're alive."

_Genius choice of words_, he thought. Apparently, Molly agreed.

"Pride of Scotland Yard, you are," she said with a slight smirk. It rankled him.

"What is going on?" he demanded.

She licked her lips and glanced to the ceiling, weighing her words.

"How much do you want to know?"

"Everything," he replied without hesitation. "Anything to explain why the woman I identified as dead from blunt force trauma and a fucking gun shot wound is sitting right in front of me."

A look of regret managed to cross her face.

"I am sorry for that," she said gently. "You of all people should understand, though."

"Understand _what_, Molly?" he demanded, voice rising in irritation. She leveled her gaze at him, her eyes becoming serious.

"I'm an agent with MI5. In the past, I've worked in pathological evidence regarding investigations of domestic terrorism and national security. Five years ago, I was hand picked by Mycroft to leave my division and start a position at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. He enlisted me to watch you; to report on your activity, make sure you didn't get involved in anything too… heavy, and to make sure you had help if you did."

He laughed. It was the only reaction he could manage. Molly narrowed her eyes at him as he sat back and put a fisted hand over his mouth, feeling his confusion and shock release through the laughter.

"Mycroft has truly outdone himself this time," he said with a smile. "Tell him well done. Honestly, it's the best prank he's pulled since we were children. I might actually kill him in retaliation for this one."

The tight smile she gave him was somewhat less than patronizing.

He gazed back at her with a critical eye, the smile fading from his face. Falling back on what he knew best, he really looked at Molly. Lightening intelligence. Unassuming demeanor. No immediate family, no close ties to complicate a high security job. Nerves of steel in high stress situations. Lean, fit body speaking to at least a certain amount of training. She was a perfect candidate.

There was something in her eyes, now, too; they held a self-assuredness that he had either failed to see or had never been shown. His head tilted back a bit as his brow furrowed.

"The homicide," he stated. "They needed you back with a clean slate."

Molly nodded.

"There was activity in a dormant cell that I had been lead on in regards to physical evidence before I was contacted by Mycroft. It was imperative that I could slip back into the investigation without notice. If I had any eyes on me at all while I was at Bart's, and I'm almost certain I did, I would have been compromised the moment I made a move towards MI5. I stood the best chance if the cell thought I had been disposed of." She paused and looked down at her entwined fingers, flexing them nervously. He took comfort in the familiar movement. "I never wanted to hurt you, or John or anyone at NSY… but it was the only way. With Moriarty and his network gone, you were deemed safe. For the time being."

Sherlock blinked, having a hard time reconciling the words that were being spoken with the light voice of the timid pathologist he had always known. She still peered at him with those slightly wounded brown eyes, her face scrunching as it always did when she was about to say something to him that she found difficult.

"It went a bit wrong. Fionnula Mahon was never supposed to contact me at Bart's. You got too close to something. You certainly drew someone's attention," she explained.

Sherlock's mind immediately flashed to the memory stick sitting in his flat. If they had been able to track him down, they certainly knew where to look for any information. His stomach tightened at the thought.

Seeming to read his mind, Molly shook her head.

"Anything you had is lost by now," she told him.

"John and Mrs. Hudson?" he asked instinctively.

"Safe," she reassured him.

He nodded. She regarded him for a moment before standing.

"I need to place a few calls now that things have changed," she said. "Rest if you need to. We'll be in Vienna shortly."

With that, she withdrew to the rear of the plane, partitioned by a small door.

* * *

Sherlock watched the details of the city magnify as the plane dipped lower. The lights of Vienna were just beginning to wink in the fading sunlight, the foreign pattern of the city reminding him how very far from home they had gone. He had been to this city once as a child, one of many family holidays that had ended with fights with Mycroft, exasperation from father, and grieved looks from mummy. The only parts he had enjoyed were the pastries and the concerts.

He glanced at Molly's focused expression, her gaze directed out of the windows. He had a feeling concerts and strudel would not be a large part of this trip.

The plane touched down on a quiet airstrip and Molly retrieved a large duffel bag the moment they came to rest, slinging it over her shoulder as she made her way to the door. Sherlock followed, strangely conscious of the lack of attention she was giving him.

Molly flung her bag into the boot of the waiting black car, brushing off the driver's offer of help. Zipping her jacket up against the chill of the evening, she rounded to the other side of the car and slid inside. Sherlock pulled his own coat tighter and followed suit, glad to escape the Vienna spring air that seemed a good deal colder than London's. The car took them quickly through the city, working its way into the bustle of evening shopping and cafes.

"Ben Nevis?" he asked as they wove into the heart of Vienna, peering at the buildings lining the streets.

"Government house," she explained. "Too high up to reach for most… safe summit."

As if on cue, the car rolled to a stop in front of a narrow, three-story building that echoed the Baroque architecture of a bygone era. The street was only a touch quieter than some of the main thoroughfares, with cafes and boutiques dotting the bottom floors of many of the buildings. Streetlamps provided a homey glow in the blue hues of the evening.

The driver had Molly's bag out of the car before she had even touched the sidewalk, though she claimed it back from him with a small roll of her eyes as they reached the front door.

"I can manage it, Peter," she said with a hint of a smile.

"I know you can," the driver replied, returning the smile. "Good to see you, Doctor Hooper."

Sherlock watched the exchange of familiarity with some unease, feeling at a horrible disadvantage. He had never liked that feeling; it was too close to ignorance, a state of mind he fought tooth and nail.

The driver made his way back to the car and Sherlock felt Molly tug at the cuff of his coat, pulling his attention from the sudden observation that Peter was rather handsome, for a government driver. And seemed to know Molly quite well.

"Sherlock, it's frigid out here," she said. "Let's get inside."

It was the first time she had said his name since roaring up on that sportbike and it nearly took the breath from his lungs. He had not realized how much he missed the sound of it coming from her. How incredibly stupid to miss hearing his name from a single voice, and yet there was no ignoring the reaction it caused.

Molly led him inside and he took in the small sitting room, dripping with the mahogany and leather of an official government parlour. She obviously held it in about as much esteem as he did.

"For fancy visitors," she said as she waved a disinterested hand at the stuffy room. Trekking up the stairs, she led them to the second floor and a more comfortable space. "Kitchen is always stocked and the lounge is just there," she told him, pointing out the bits of the narrow flat as they went along.

Climbing to the third floor, the stairs opened onto a loft space, stark in its whiteness and bearing only the necessities of living: two beds, a nearly empty bookshelf, and a looming wardrobe. Molly dumped her bag on the bed nearest to the stairs and removed her jacket, watching him as he moved through the space to look out of the glass doors leading to a small terrace. He could see the lights of the city glittering on the surface of the Danube as it coursed below.

"I know you probably have a fair few questions left," she said, crossing the room to join him. "But I think freshening up and a good dinner is in order first."

He saw her from the corner of his eye, looking up at him as she waited for a response. His brain was either frozen or overwhelmed, he wasn't entirely sure which, and he was having trouble thinking of the right thing to say.

"Okay then," she muttered, dropping her gaze and turning away.

The tone of her voice and the wrenching familiarity snapped him out of his stupor and he reached out to grasp her hand. Shedding all sense of reason, he looked into the face that had been haunting him far too much and took only a moment to set the image of her to memory before pulling her into his arms. He had never been one for hugging, but holding Molly seemed to come naturally. Feeling her warm body pressed against his, the firmness of her back as his hands found a home there, the way she tentatively slid her own arms under his coat and around his waist before sinking into him - he needed all of it to remind him that this wasn't a dream.

Reluctantly, he eventually let her go, aware that even if he had no care to partake in the fully stocked kitchen, she surely must, having spent the day thwarting his attackers and dragging him across Europe to ensure their safety. She smiled at him and straightened out his coat before stepping away.

"Just the one loo, unfortunately," she explained as she headed towards the door behind her. "Rescuers get first dibs, I should think."

She flipped the light on and turned around, catching the door with her shoe to swing it shut, but not before Sherlock caught the flash of skin as she pulled at her tank top.

He felt something akin to a shiver spread through his torso.

* * *

Molly let the bathroom door shut behind her and yanked the top from her body, glad to shed the remnants of the day. Sitting down on the edge of the tub, she tugged off her boots and leaned over to place her head in her hands, pressing against her temples in a mad attempt to keep her thoughts from racing. This was absolutely not how things were supposed to go.

Why had Mahon contacted her at Bart's? What had made her so desperate that she ignored Molly's strictest instruction? If not for that, she would have been able to meet with the woman before other events were set in motion. If not for Sherlock, she could still have met with her under the right circumstances. Weeks of work lost.

He was extraordinarily fortunate she had been watching him, worried since the day he had traced that call back to its source. The people she suspected they were dealing with would have made quick work of him, no matter his overconfidence in his own combat skills.

He _would_ push her out of hiding to save his brilliant rear.

Thinking about him as she stripped out of the rest of her clothes and set the shower flowing was not the wisest of ideas, but what else did she have to think about at this moment? It certainly wouldn't be the first time he had infiltrated her thoughts when she was showering. Unlike many of the other times, though, she now found herself actually facing him when she stepped out of the room. Professional, she just needed to keep it professional. It had always been her mission to watch him; the situation had simply shifted a bit.

She rolled her eyes at her own pathetic attempt to downplay the events. Who the hell was she kidding? This was a total fucking disaster. She was surely in for an earful from Mycroft.

Sherlock, on the other hand, had been unusually quiet. In observation mode, most likely. She hoped to hell he wasn't angry with her. No more than reason, at least. She felt she had to expect a certain amount of distance after all he had trusted her with… she'd seen it in John in the aftermath of Sherlock's return and, while Sherlock was not cut from the same emotional stone as Doctor Watson, he was undoubtedly temperamental. And proud.

_That hug, though_, she thought as she shut off the tap, stepping from the tub to towel the water from her hair. She wrapped herself in the warmth of a fluffy robe and shoved away the feeling of his warm arms around her instead. It was impulse, she reasoned; a trivial reaction to the shock of the day. It would fade away, as all of his attention usually did.

Good. It made her job that much easier.

Molly ran her fingers quickly through her hair and walked out of the bathroom, leaving the door open for him. Not surprisingly, he had managed to find the extra stashes of clothes and packages of underpants and socks, making a neat pile of what he needed at the end of his bed. His coat and scarf had been folded over the chair by the window. He met her eyes as she stepped into the room, abandoning what must have been a fascinating study of his hands clasped in his lap. He sat on the edge of the bed with obvious unease.

"All yours," she said, nodding her head in the direction of the door.

She busied herself digging through her bag for comfortable nightclothes, glancing up as he glided wordlessly into the bathroom.

"Mr. Talkative," she muttered, dragging a pair of yoga pants and a loose, long-sleeved shirt from her bag.

She changed quickly and made her way down to the kitchen, happy to find a freshly delivered meat stew waiting in the fridge. It was just cooling down from the microwave when Sherlock padded down the stairs to join her, looking slightly less out of sorts, having changed into less formal trousers and a T-shirt. She did not offer him food, knowing he could look after his own needs.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, body angled slightly away from her and a hand placed on the table, fingers drumming away. She could nearly hear the spinning of his mind, working over every moment they had known each other and trying to figure out how he had missed all of the clues.

_Don't you understand?_ she wanted to tell him. _You never looked. Not really._

"You've never been one to waste time with unnecessary questions," she said instead. "Don't expect you'll start now."

This raised his eyebrows slightly, though he took a moment before responding.

"Considering what you did for me, I can only imagine the thoroughness that went into whoever's body was displayed in your flat. Especially if you anticipated my looking at it at any point," he stated with a fair amount of superiority. She smiled at the implication that she had fooled him, but only for lack of him doing the postmortem himself. "The magnitude of our flight would imply you are dealing with something a bit greater than our usual cases of murder. Something large. Possibly international."

"There have been stirrings of communication to a terrorist cell in the Middle East," she confirmed for him, not mincing words. "We've yet to determine what the nature of the messages are. We had hoped… _I_ had hoped that Fionnula Mahon had information for us. Opportunity lost."

She took advantage of his contemplative silence to work through some of her stew, famished from the day and grateful for the heartiness of the meal.

"Perhaps not," he said after a time. Molly's mouth slowly fell open as he informed her of the information he had nicked from Mahon's flat. "Do you think it significant?" he asked as he finished.

She was unsure which gave her more astonishment, his ability to uproot dangerous secrets or that he had asked her opinion on his discovery.

"It's too odd to not be significant," she said.

"My thoughts as well," he responded, leaning forward with a glint of excitement.

"It'll have to wait til morning to look into it further," Molly told him, warning off the determined look taking over his face. "We don't have the right resources here."

She knew he was not used to being told to wait for anything, but she saw the effort to contain his impatience and listen to her. That was no small feat for Sherlock Holmes. However, she could tell by the way he was looking at her that there were still details nagging his mind.

"The robber accused of your murder?" he asked, trying to tie up every loose end.

"A target in a gang war," Molly told him. "He was already facing jail time and he agreed to play the part as long as we agreed to keep him safely in maximum security. No one will touch him and no one will question the crime… at least, no one was supposed to," she added with an appreciative look at him.

She couldn't quite interpret the way he looked at her then and she suddenly felt the layer of detachment she had forced into existence since receiving her orders penetrated by the thought of the pain she had caused. Of course he had investigated; she wouldn't have expected any less of him. He had simply stumbled upon evidence that never should have been available to him, or anyone else. She had never expected his reaction to be this… emotional. That was her territory, not his.

Looking down into the last few spoonfuls of stew, she gave up on the idea of food. She stood up and dumped the bowl and its contents into the sink, giving everything a cursory wash before turning back around.

He was still staring at her and she fought the urge to bolt from under his gaze.

"It was… an act," he said, his face taking on a strange neutrality.

Molly forced her breathing to remain even. She knew exactly what he was asking.

"I never said that," she replied calmly.

"Surely most of it," he pressed, determined to pull out the truth.

"Why do you think I was the one there to have you identify who you thought was Irene Adler? Why do you think I pushed you to realize I could help you with your 'final problem?' Mycroft trusted my discretion. I was placed in Bart's in order to keep you as safe as possible."

She left it to his own genius to work out the minutiae.

"Moriarty?" he muttered, eyes leaving hers.

Her heart jumped at that one.

"Jim was a… a happy accident. For everyone but me," she answered quietly, trying to read any sort of reaction on his face. She still shivered a bit at the memory of how close she had been to a madman and not knowing it until after the fact. "Mycroft certainly saw the advantages."

Her words hung in the air for far too long. Unable to stand the silence any longer, she made her way to the stairs and climbed towards the solace of sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Ooph, thank you to everyone who is enjoying this/following/giving it a shot. That positive feedback was desperately needed. Now, more BAMF!Molly? Yessss, let's do it!**

* * *

Sherlock sat for ages at the kitchen table, letting his thoughts ramble. He didn't even bother with his mind palace. Molly had officially taken a wrecking ball to an entire section of it anyway. After a time, he pulled his phone from his pocket and shot off a text to Mycroft.

_What do you plan to tell everyone about my sudden disappearance?_

Let the ringleader figure out the details, as he apparently always did.

Not a minute had passed before he got his reply.

_You've found yourself in some trouble and are in government protection for an undetermined amount of time. Not far from the truth_.

He had known all along. Naturally.

Sherlock couldn't even begin to formulate a reply containing his opinion on Mycroft's loose interpretation of 'truth.' Despite his common fits of petulance with his brother, he had no desire to look outsmarted or out of control and he was certain that anything he said would be defensive, if not insulting. No need to give Mycroft that satisfaction. That he had placed someone near Sherlock to keep an eye on him was not terribly surprising. That it had been Molly…

She had done an extraordinary job in playing her part. Stunning, really. He had always been so focused on his cases, finding the little ways to flatter her into helping him when he needed it. Her devotion had been unmistakable – or so he thought. Everything she did for him, even in the defeated certainty that he did not care about her, he thought had been done out of love, as foolish as he deemed it to be at the time. She had been hopelessly smitten, he had been sure. The stammering, the wide eyes and girlish smiles, the Christmas gift…

Was that really all? Those were all easily fabricated. He had found more telltale signs in Adler.

Now that he thought of it properly, he realized he'd never bothered to really look for the signs in Molly. So easily swayed by his compliments and jumping to help him in any way she could, he hadn't seen it as necessary to… check. He simply assumed that she was the type of woman made pliable most easily by a well-placed compliment. The Christmas present had stunned him and the embarrassment of his deductions were as deep for him as they obviously were for her. He'd only done it to stop her spilling what he had told her in a burst of confidence at the lab. No woman had ever declared anything remotely close to love for him before… he'd had no idea how to respond to her affection. Not to mention he had been _wrong_. In front of everyone, she had simultaneously proven that someone could care deeply for him and that he could muck up the key part of a deduction. She always seemed to find his weaknesses…

The memories spun like a top in his mind and he struggled to pluck out the moments when he had been sure of her sincerity.

She had been so much more involved in the secret bits of his life than he had ever imagined. That her involvement with Moriarty had been an accident… that afforded him a bit of comfort.

If he had been at Baker Street, it would have been a night spent attached to his laptop or dropping various useless items in acid for amusement and distraction. As it was, the government house had a pathetic lack of interesting objects and he was forced to admit that he had just about reached his limit for lack of sleep. Two hours average a night had caught up to him and the reason for the disturbance was currently tucked away upstairs, restored to him.

The stairs creaked a bit as he made his way back into the bedroom. He lightened his steps, not wanting to disturb Molly. He crossed the room to sit on the edge of his bed, not able to stop his eyes from drifting up to look at her.

She was not exactly an elegant sleeper. Sprawled on her back with an arm thrown over her head and one leg peeking out from under the covers, she looked quite a mess. Her face was peaceful, though, and she looked impossibly young in the moonlit room. His eyes lingered on the way her sleep shirt had raised a bit, exposing her toned abdomen.

There was that feeling again.

Something to file away and analyze another time, perhaps.

Molly was not only a quiet sleeper, but also quite adept at being silent upon rising. While John could easily rouse Sherlock with his blundering around in the mornings, Sherlock woke in Vienna to an empty room and the smell of coffee drifting up from the floor below.

She was working away on a laptop at the table when he made his way down, her legs tucked up onto the chair and her hair spilling over one shoulder. The table itself was a spread of fruits, sausages, eggs, and pastries. He glanced at the stove and found it empty and clean. Delivery, then. Moving closer to the table, he inspected the plate piled with pastries. There would be strudel after all.

He pulled one quickly from the pile and tossed it onto a plate. Turning to fix himself a cup of coffee, he found an already steaming mug sitting on the counter.

"Black. Two sugars."

She was going to make him suffer through every sentimental memory once more.

He plunked the mug on the table and sat down unceremoniously.

"You've been hard at work," he observed, noting her unwavering attention to the computer screen.

"An old colleague of mine, Kurt Maier, is still in his position here in Vienna," she said. "I've sent him what information I can on Mahon. He'll be able to get us a full background, activity, financials – anything that could be useful in tracking down what she was involved in."

"I saw nothing out of the ordinary in her office, or her home excepting the laptop."

"You were also focused on finding a link to me, not something bigger," Molly reminded him. He tried not to let the affront to his talent show, but she must have sensed it. "Nothing against you - I suspect she was very good at hiding things in her life, better than most. She came out of the blue when she approached me. I can't imagine how long she had been keeping my name on the back burner in her mind, seeing as it was five years since I had been involved in anything outside of Bart's. How she got my name in the first place, I don't know."

"You don't have to patch my feelings, Molly, my pride isn't that easily wounded," he insisted, defenses up. She wasn't usually this open with him and the dynamic shift was just strange.

"Oh my goodness, you moped for _days_ when you missed the parasites on that case in Northampton and I had to point it out to you, _so_ focused on the bike messenger - "

"Who did turn out to be a killer," he grumbled, sinking a bit in his chair.

"Just not of the original victim," she pointed out with a smirk. Sherlock fought back a sneer and made to stand up, grabbing the coffee and the plate with his forgotten breakfast. Molly's hand shot out and took hold of his wrist, holding tight. The part of him that wanted to be done with the conversation quickly succumbed to the part of him that suddenly only wanted to stay in her grasp. He looked into her earnest face. "You got what mattered most, what no one else could. Don't think for a moment that I don't consider you the best there is."

He let the mug and plate settle back onto the table. She did not surrender her grasp on his wrist.

"Molly Hooper, are you attempting flattery to get your way?" he drawled, eyes narrowing. He saw her fight back a smile.

"I've seen the method work in the past," she replied.

"Keep it up, you never know when it will work again," he advised with a slight smile.

Bantering with Molly – this was very different. It was, dare he say it, fun. Stimulating.

Her phone chimed and she let go, reaching for the device. The loss of contact left his skin somewhat cold. He flexed his hand at the feeling and finally reached for the strudel, taking a grateful bite.

"Kurt says to meet him in an hour. He'll have what we need," Molly relayed the information from the text.

* * *

The sportbike was waiting for them at the curb when they exited the house. As was Peter, leaning against the black car while another driver waited inside. He smiled at Molly and tossed her the keys.

"All yours, Doctor Hooper," he said.

Sherlock caught the wedding ring this time that had been hidden under black gloves the night before. Married, happily. Ah. Good.

Wait, why good?

Molly shoved a helmet at him before he could finish the thought properly.

"You don't ride in London," he commented, having seen her come and go at Bart's enough to know with a good amount of certainty.

"Not typically, no," she replied, adjusting her black satchel over her shoulder before grabbing the handle and swinging a leg over the bike. "But it makes for easy maneuvering when things get… interesting. Never travel without it. You should consider one," she smiled at him before lowering the helmet to her head.

His eyebrows rose with interest. That was something he had never contemplated. It would certainly aid him in street pursuits. He pictured riding through London, jetting after criminals… with John sitting behind him.

Good god, that would just thrill the newspapers. Nope, idea revoked.

He placed the helmet on his head and climbed behind Molly, significantly more aware of the way she fit against his body than he had been the day before. She drove them swiftly through the streets to a small café not fifteen minutes away.

Kurt Maier was a professional man of fifty with blonde hair fading to grey. The brace wrapped around one wrist screamed long hours at a computer, most likely surveillance or intel. Significant income there, but it was obviously not spent on him judging by the slightly worn and out of style suit he wore. Children and a wife at home, perhaps private school tuition. Enjoyed the work, but was looking forward to retirement soon.

Molly simply saw an old friend, taking his hand warmly as introductions were made.

"So you've found yourself back in the game, then, Molly?" he grinned as they took their seats at a corner table.

"A tad unexpectedly, but yes," she replied. "One last go 'round."

Sherlock looked at her after the comment, realizing he had assumed she had left him and St. Bart's behind permanently. Perhaps he had assumed too quickly.

"Your secret is safe," Kurt lowered his voice slightly, leaning forward. "As I am sure these are safe with you."

He produced a file folder and slid it over the table towards Molly. She opened it and Sherlock leaned closer, eager to set his eyes on the new pieces of the puzzle. He fought the urge to take the entire file from Molly as her hands turned the pages too slowly and Kurt's narrative of the contents distracted him.

"She was a straightforward girl, your professor, expect for two things," Kurt told them. "Swiss bank account with money shuffling in and out for three years, then stopping. Same amount every month from an undisclosed source and always a cash transfer to England."

"Yes, we _can_ read it," Sherlock muttered.

Molly glared at him. He looked back at her with his best innocent face, hoping it still worked on her. Her eyes narrowed. Perhaps he needed to work on a new tactic.

"What's the other oddity?" Molly asked, turning her attention back to Kurt.

"Digging back a bit in her history was something of a maze. Only reason I bothered was the fact that she seemed to want to hide something," Kurt explained, flipping ahead in the pages much to Sherlock's annoyance. "For one thing, Mahon was her married name. Kept it even after her husband's death."

"Obviously."

Sherlock felt Molly's hand land on the top of his knee and squeeze none too gently.

"Behave," she commanded under her breath.

He kept his gaze steadily ahead, despite the jarring internal reaction he had to Molly's firm touch and domineering tone. No one ever touched him like that. And the last woman to talk to him like that… He banished the thought of Molly standing over him wearing nothing but his Belstaff.

Kurt looked between the two of them, hesitating.

"The… the files show the maiden name to be Connor," he continued at Molly's encouraging nod. "Though even that is not original – she legally changed it when she was sixteen. Her birth name was O'Duffy."

The information set off a wave of thoughts in Sherlock's mind. People wanting to hide their past altered names and lives for a multitude of reasons and he quickly began eliminating the ones he thought least likely for Professor Mahon. Assessing the look on Molly's face, he knew she was of a similar mind on the subject.

"It's basic, I know," Kurt said apologetically.

"No, Kurt, it's fantastically helpful, really," Molly replied, gathering up the papers. Sherlock looked at her, wondering how she could fall into the behavior of the masses – telling him he had been helpful when really he had offered very little. Pacifying. "Listen, I know it's a lot to ask, but is there any way you could get us access into the database? Patch us in from Nevis?"

Ah. She was better at this game than he had suspected.

"Have you up and running by this afternoon," Kurt promised with a smile.

Molly shoved the file into her satchel as they exited the café. She wordlessly donned her helmet and climbed onto the bike, giving Sherlock no choice but to quickly do the same. They were off into the street in seconds.

In the wrong direction.

"Not returning to the flat, then?" he shouted to her.

"I am not."

"Got another meeting with an 'old friend?'" Well that didn't sound put out at all.

"No," she said, raising her voice as she kicked the bike up another notch in speed. "Actually, we're being followed."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Ever grateful to MizJoely for the beta work. Just had to say that.**

**Song for the day, one I have been listening to a lot while writing this - "Cassiopeia" by Sara Bareilles**

**Don't know why, it just feels like the theme song to me :)**

* * *

Jetting around Vienna with Sherlock wrapped flush against her back was not at all what Molly thought she would be doing just days ago. The feeling was nice, if a bit spoiled by the black car she was currently trying to shake from their tail. She had seen the car pull up and idle across from the café and immediately dismissed the idea that it was one of their own. Working with Sherlock over the years had certainly improved her already well-trained observation skills.

It was several blocks before traffic opened up and she was able to weave the bike between cars, speeding a safe distance from whoever was following. Not wanting to risk anything, she continued to wind them around cars and cross streets as she backtracked, Sherlock holding on tighter at her maneuvering. Molly couldn't blame him, she knew she was an impatient driver and – holy shit, did he realize just how close that hand was to a breast he had once clearly expressed disapproval for? The bike jerked forward as she accelerated unexpectedly.

Damn him if he didn't.

She drove to a small green space between buildings along the Danube, knowing it was well hidden by shrubbery and cars parked along the street. Stashing the bike behind a dumpster, she led them down through trees and bushes to the small patch of grass along the riverbank. Better to lay low for a while and reduce the risk of leading any unwanted visitors back to Nevis.

She dumped her satchel to the ground and sat down beside it, casting a glance at Sherlock. He stood slightly behind her, hands clasped behind his back, deep in thought.

"Any theories?" she prodded, hoping to engage his mind.

"Hypotheses, Molly, use the correct terminology. You know better."

She turned her head quickly so he wouldn't see her wince. He was nothing if not consistent in his manners.

"And yes, several," he went on. "The money was circulating the entire duration of her husband's illness and stopped abruptly upon his death."

She was amazed how much information he had been able to absorb with just a perfunctory look at the files. That mind of his was truly stunning.

"Someone was paying for his treatment," she concluded.

"Clearly. With that comes one of two things: blackmail or indebtedness. In her case, I suspect it to be a bit of both. The extent to which she kept it quiet and the desperate end to her life – she was in over her head in something. No doubt we'll manage to find something of consequence when we return to the flat, having charmed your colleague into giving you deeper access. Of course, I could already be doing my own research if not for your little detour."

"I wanted to give a wide berth to - "

"Please, Molly, you lost them within minutes and you know it. You brought me here to get my undivided attention. Probably to discuss something personal."

The river surface suddenly became fascinating. Molly drew her knees up and clasped her hands in front of them, completely aware that she was broadcasting her feelings with her body language.

"You know, you used to make me a nervous wreck," she said with a wry smile, studying the way the water rippled with the light breeze. "You still do, sometimes. I can't tell you the number of times I almost went to Mycroft and begged him to find someone else. You turned me into a stammering idiot."

His response was slow and measured and she heard the effort that went into conversing about feelings.

"How could I alone be responsible for altering you that much?"

She looked over her shoulder and found his gaze focused on her. She blinked at him, feeling her tongue ready to betray her every secret.

"You observed me well enough," she told him. "And you read my blog, I know you did."

"Ah yes, the blog," he responded. "That was a nice touch to the act."

"I told you last night it wasn't - "

"You did a great deal to make it all authentic. Right down to risking your career and your reputation to put me in the grave, all because my brother demanded it - "

"I didn't do that because Mycroft asked," she cried, jumping up from the ground and rounding on him. She could feel heat rising in her face and clenched her fists to control the frustration. How had this turned into a fight so fast? "He didn't even know until after – I offered myself to you because I knew I was your best chance, because I didn't want to see you hurt. Or killed. Because… I…"

She snapped her mouth shut, cutting herself off before she turned into the stammering idiot that she had fought to bury. Sherlock looked at her with scrutinizing eyes.

"And what made you think it would be any easier to see the same happen to you?" he asked slowly.

His words cut at her chest. She had told him on the plane that she never meant to hurt anyone. The necessity of the situation, the complexity, had made the decision for her. It had been a blanket statement of regret.

"Honestly, I didn't think you'd care all that much," she said dejectedly.

The look on his face was enough to tell her that she had gotten it all wrong.

"You - "

"An inconvenience, of course," she interrupted. "But… but I figured, once you found a new pathologist you worked well with, your world would be right again. Caring isn't an advantage, as you say."

She watched his chin lift in the way it always did when he was presented with something new to process and assess. His mouth opened with the intent to speak, but he closed it quickly, seeming to think better of the idea. Standing stiffly with his blue eyes looking at her as though she was a puzzling sample under his microscope, Molly pulled her jacket closer against a particularly bitter gust of wind.

It was a quiet ride back to the flat.

Sherlock immediately tossed his coat and scarf onto the table and flung himself into an armchair in the lounge, tucking a fisted hand under his chin and staring out the window. Molly recognized a good pout when she saw one and left him alone, choosing to try a simple internet search for new information. Hoping for better results with the added knowledge of name changes, she tapped into every basic resource she had available.

No such luck.

Her phone chimed and she saw Sherlock's head turn slightly, his eyes shifting over to find out what the interruption was. Molly glanced down at her screen before returning her attention to the computer.

"We're in," she told him simply.

He unfolded himself from the chair and she tried not to notice how nice he looked in the set of spare clothes from the flat, blue jumper pulled over a grey button down that altogether brought out the color of his eyes. Compared to his usual suits, he looked downright huggable. It there were any chance it would take away the wary expression in his eyes when he looked at her, she would have.

Pulling a chair next to hers, Sherlock sat down and waited for her to get into the database, his leg bouncing slightly in anticipation.

Following an instinct, Molly ran a full family history. A somewhat comfortable silence enveloped the room as they both scanned page after page of information. Her eyes landed on the glaring detail just as his obviously did, both of their hands rising to the screen to point it out.

"Her grandfather," she said in a rush.

"Member of the IRA," Sherlock added.

It was the last thing she wanted to find. Her work before starting at Bart's had brought her close to a faction of the Irish Republican Army, a small group that had broken away and had become much more violent and dangerous. The work she had performed in pathology had linked the group to several violent crimes and stopped them before they were able to go through with a domestic terrorist attack. She knew it was unlikely she had come out of the investigation and arrests without gaining enemies.

The link was too perfect to be anything but significant.

Of course, Sherlock read it all in her face.

"That's the connection," he said. "She tried to hide her family's association with the IRA. Someone wasn't letting her. Someone pushed her to her wit's end until she felt she had no way out. What was she offering that made her so valuable to them?"

Molly blinked at the screen as Sherlock talked, her brow knitting as she felt guilt sink into her body.

"She came to me for help," she said quietly. Sherlock looked over at her, clearly derailed by her statement.

"It's not possible to save everyone," he offered as awkward comfort.

"I should have tried harder," she replied, her voice tinged with anger at herself.

The feeling of his hand wrapping around hers as it lay idle on the table startled her. It was the last thing she expected from him. Her eyes lifted to meet his.

"There's no point in holding yourself accountable. It's not logical. She was an intelligent woman; she knew her resources. It's highly unlikely she had nowhere else to turn. Focusing on that will only serve to distract you from the importance of this investigation…" As Molly's look grew increasingly disconcerted, Sherlock shook his head slightly and seemed to redirect his words. "You can't blame yourself, Molly. You'll simply end up tormented for no reason."

His voice dropped slightly and his eyes darted away ever so quickly before coming back to hers. Molly barely saw it, but the shift in his expression was enough to let her know that the advice came from a personal place deep inside him. Her chest lifted with a forced breath as something passed between them, something that made her heart jump.

"I should… probably call in the information," she told him, seeking a way to slip out from under that intense gaze of his. He was presenting her with too many sides of his personality for one day, and she knew that could be a practically endless exhibition. Extracting her hand gently from under his, she reached for her mobile and stood up.

She only half heard the words of her superior on the other end of the phone, her mind diverted by Sherlock's sudden openness and her body set on edge as he continued to watch her.

Her instructions were to sit tight. Lovely. Trapped in the flat with a man who could barely keep still long enough to brush his teeth – and he certainly seemed to be getting his feet back under him, the shock wearing off – not to mention the heavy presence of whatever had welled up between them.

She managed through a combination of allowing him free rein over her computer and pulling up every journal she could think of covering antibiotic resistant bacteria.

Nearing one in the morning, her third cup of coffee began to wear off and she blinked bleary eyes at the rapidly blurring computer screen as Sherlock familiarized himself with CDC response and enzyme activity. It was all she could do to keep from resting her head against his shoulder.

"I can't make it any longer," she finally said, rising from her chair. He looked at her in disappointment, as though she were abandoning him in his hour of need. She gave him a soft smile. "I do need sleep, Sherlock. Most people do."

"Most people aren't trying hard enough," he muttered, though he began the process of shutting her laptop down.

"What are you doing?"

"John is difficult enough to abide when he thinks I'm not sleeping enough," he told her as he shut the laptop and stood up. "I can only imagine what you'll be like. Though I suppose I could be wrong about that."

Ah there he was. He was absolutely getting his feet back under him now.

As often happened for her, Molly's mind began turning the moment she hit the pillow and she knew sleep would be slow in coming despite her exhaustion. After some time, she heard Sherlock shift on his bed and sigh. Lifting her head, she strained to see his face through the dark.

"You still awake?" she called out quietly.

"You're thinking far too much for me to be able to sleep," he said, just shy of sounding cross. "John always said it helps to talk about it. So… go ahead, if you must."

She hesitated for only a moment.

"Did you blame yourself?"

The silence went on for so long that she began to think she had made a huge mistake, angered him into ignoring her.

"At times, though it was clearly an irrational feeling."

"You stayed away from Bart's." Well, if she was going to open a can of worms she figured she might as well dump them all out.

"I found it unsettling."

"Why?"

More silence.

"Because you weren't there."

She found that she had no response. Settling her head back against her pillow, she turned his words over in her head and wondered exactly when she had missed his decision to become attached to people.

"Did you truly think I wouldn't care that you had…died?"

"Yes," she admitted guiltily. She heard him take in a breath.

"Thank you."

"What?" Molly asked, bewildered, as she lifted her head slightly.

"I never properly thanked you… for what you did for me. It seems like an appropriate time to say it, as I had thought I would never get the chance again. Especially if you did it of your own volition."

"I did," she assured him firmly.

"Thank you for your help, Molly," he said gently.

The corner of her mouth pulled up slightly as she heard the words she honestly thought he would never give her.

"I'll always help you, Sherlock."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: The reviews are all so lovely and encouraging and thank you so much and I promise I won't be leaving you all in angsty Sherlolly agony for much longer!**

**Song of the day: "Fools" by Lauren Aquilina**

* * *

He woke before Molly the next morning, managing to shower and dress in his usual suit that had been mysteriously dry cleaned and hung in the wardrobe. Morning light was just beginning to fill the room when he slipped quietly down the stairs, needing time out of her presence to sort his thoughts.

He'd dreamed of her.

It was rare that Sherlock dreamed of anyone, let alone the nature of… It hadn't been anything of a suggestive nature and, yet, it had been far more intimate than anything he had accidentally stumbled across when he'd decided to nick John's laptop out of convenience. The feeling streaming through him had been painful, cold – helpless in the worst way. Then he had looked up and she was standing there, open arms waiting. With the inhuman speed the state of dreaming allowed him, he had been in her arms in an instant and all he felt was… warmth. Pure, skin tingling warmth.

He wanted to shake the dream out of his memory, delete it immediately, frantically commanding his brain to follow direction.

Nothing for it. The details clung to him like a cobweb. He remembered his desire from just days ago to hold her, to feel her. Had it not been satiated? Had his mind not already begun to clip along at its normal speed again, working to untangle the substantial mystery they had before them? Of course, she had insisted on discussing things other than the case, but he had managed to maneuver through such discussions with people before without being subjected to such emotional responses.

It was because he had touched her last night.

That had to be the reason. Perfectly logical. The contact he had afforded her the previous day was more than he granted most people in a year. Their exchange by the river had not exactly been kind and she had displayed such remorse over what they had uncovered about Mahon. She had obviously needed the comfort. At least, he thought it was obvious. Was he really sure about anything when it came to Molly anymore?

He let out a groan and ran his hands through his hair, ruffling it. Coffee was certainly in order.

He had just sat down to let the black liquid work its magic when Molly emerged from above, fully dressed in jeans and a soft green jumper, her long hair thrown into a loose braid. Her eyes widened slightly in surprise when she saw the extra mug waiting on the table. She glanced at him quickly before peering at the mug skeptically.

"It's not laced with anything, if that's what you're worried about," he muttered as he took a sip from his own cup.

"It's a legitimate concern," she argued, though she bit back a smile, no doubt recalling the stories she had heard from John on their return from the Baskerville case.

Taking the cup in hand, Molly sipped at the coffee and a pleased expression graced her face. Sherlock looked down as the corner of his mouth turned up, hiding in another drink from his cup. He wasn't entirely sure why he had done it. To prove he had been paying attention to something over the last five years, perhaps. One sugar, generous amount of cream, and a pinch of cinnamon.

"I received a call," she informed him, leaning against the counter. "We're reporting to the MI6 headquarters here today. They're taking over my orders from MI5."

"You've been upgraded."

"It would appear so."

The sun hit them hard as they left, burning bright in the clear morning. Sherlock waited as she reached for the keys to the small, attached garage where the bike was stored. The press of metal into his side did more to annoy him than startle him, years of facing the hindrance of stupid criminals dominating his attitude. His body barely tensed as he prepared his line of attack when the metal pressed harder.

"I wouldn't do that," the voice of a male advised in his ear.

Essex, heavy smoker and frequent drinker. Not very intelligent. The deductions stopped when he saw a second man appear behind Molly, his pistol shoved roughly under her jaw and out of sight of any passersby. This man was clean-cut, professional, and handling a furious looking Molly as though she was worthless.

"You are a difficult person to track down, Miss Hooper, especially for a dead woman," the man told her, his accent posh. Sherlock felt his anger begin to boil under his skin when he saw the man's hand slip around her waist, fingers digging into her hip. The man let out a small laugh. "Oh-ho, he does not like me doing _that. _" Another pull at her body. "Don't worry, we don't need to talk for long. You got away from us yesterday, but luck is on our side today."

As he spoke, a black car pulled along the curb and stopped. The posh man directed Molly with the muzzle of the pistol.

"Into the car please, Miss Hooper," he said. When Molly lurched forward with shove from him, she cast a warning glance at Sherlock, silently begging him not to do anything rash. The man looked at him and gave a small shrug. "What the hell, your boyfriend can come too."

Sherlock was roughly pushed towards the car as well, gritting his teeth against every instinct to fight. He had particular plans for the way that man had handled her. Following Molly, he ducked into the car and joined her on the seat facing the back window, their captors sitting opposite as the doors swung shut and the car rolled into motion. Sherlock knew in an instant his aggressor had been brought along solely for the purpose of handling him. He was pure brawn.

The posh man… he was an independent contractor, in as many words. A free agent. Too groomed to be your average thug and something about him hinted at time in government work. He knew the game. And he benefited from it, judging by the suit, the expensive timepiece, and the sleek pistol that had pressed into Molly's flesh. His lip curled as he thought of it.

"He really does not like me," the posh man smiled at Molly as he adjusted his suit. She stared back with a cool expression.

"Don't be flattered, he doesn't like anyone," she said dryly. "Who are you?"

"You can call me Smith and leave it at that," he said as he continued to smile.

"What do you want?" she asked with barely contained irritation.

"Money, primarily," he said bluntly, waving a dismissive hand when Molly opened her mouth to respond. "No, not from you. Someone else. And it would truly be helpful to me if you exposed Mahon's work."

"How did you know - "

"He knew her," Sherlock cut her off, setting a piercing gaze on Smith. "Perhaps not personally, but she fell into his professional network. It's how he knew to find you when she died, Molly. Doesn't know what she was working on specifically, if he did he'd be intimidating someone far more connected than us. He knew she was set to betray someone and he stood to profit from it. Running low on funds, are we? The cheap haircuts are a concession, obviously." Smith ran a hand self-consciously along his hairline. Sherlock could see Molly's smirk as he verbally took down their captor. "The connections he has in government are failing him, he's not as useful as he used to be. Traveling all the way to Vienna to ensure someone's failure against the government?" He clucked his tongue in disapproval. "Getting desperate. Desperate to continue to impress the women as well, I'm guessing. Accessories more impressive than the action figure?"

Molly actually snorted at that, ducking her head in amusement before Smith cut him off.

"All right, fine, enough," he cried roughly, shifting in his seat. Sherlock looked away, feigning boredom. "I shouldn't even… the _nerve._" He cleared his throat and pulled at his tie. "But as you are… correct… Derry, Ireland. Man named Sean Finn. Ever since they lost Mahon, they've been scrambling for a replacement."

Smith looked pointedly at Molly and Sherlock felt his nerves prickle at the implication.

"Get in with him, you'll have all you need. And hopefully so will I."

The car came to a sudden stop and Smith threw the door open, nodding towards it without of a hint of the smile he had worn before. Molly slid out first, standing on edge until Sherlock joined her on the sidewalk, slamming the door shut with a final withering glance at the two men. They had been returned to the flat.

* * *

An impressive looking senior agent named Harry Pritchard, all copper skin, dark eyes, and muscle, listened to Molly's recounting of the events as they sat inside an office in the MI6 headquarters. He expressed disappointment in the anonymity of their source of information, but the advantage of having said knowledge seemed to outweigh the displeasure.

"You come highly recommended by Mycroft," he informed Molly as the conversation turned to the subject of the necessary response to what they held in their hands. "We know there is chatter making its way to the Middle East. We know this faction in Derry is showing signs of activity and with Mahon's ties to the IRA… What we need now is proof. Are you willing?"

Sherlock's eyes locked on Molly. She was a brilliant pathologist; she had been doing work for the government for years. She had kept her true position hidden from him for five years, no small accomplishment. But going undercover in a group with possible ties to terrorism? The risk, the probability that she could wind up in serious danger…

"Yes."

He had known her answer before she even spoke it, but hearing the word put lead in his stomach. Feeling Pritchard's eyes focusing on him, Sherlock ripped his gaze away from Molly's resolute face and looked up at the man.

"And Mr. Holmes the younger – still highly recommended, but with a warning that you can be a bit of a livewire," Pritchard said with a quick glance back at Molly. "Is he as good as they say?"

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and leveled his gaze.

"Your gallbladder removal recovery would be going a great deal smoother if you cut back on fats."

Pritchard raised his eyebrows and gave an approving look. Molly smiled.

"Believe me, he's holding back," she said with a glance at Sherlock.

"We'll make the arrangements."

* * *

The mood on the plane ride leaving Vienna was dramatically different than it had been approaching the city. The literature pushed on them to become familiar with before landing in Derry was enough to keep them occupied for over half of the flight. Naturally, Sherlock dismissed a great deal of it and finished far more quickly than Molly, turning his thoughts to what they faced. It had begun to coalesce in his mind and, if he was correct, they were undoubtedly about to enter perilous territory. The fact that they had been issued holsters and semi-automatics was testament to the seriousness.

If Molly felt any of the impending risk, she did not show it, only putting down the packet in order to take a phone call in the privacy of the rear of the plane.

Eventually, she tossed the packet to the side and let out a heavy sigh.

"You've got that look," she told him with a slight wrinkle of her nose.

"_Which_ look? I've been informed I have several that seem to cause concern."

"The one when you're onto something," Molly replied. "You, ah, you have it figured out, don't you?"

"Very possibly," he murmured, rolling his ideas over in his head. After several moments silence, he continued. "Mahon managed to successfully hide her family's association with the IRA. Until her husband got sick and the relatives began to come out of the woodwork. She needed their money and they needed her skills. The money, well, that was coming from the promise of a weapon… a weapon that depended on the expertise of a bacterial expert."

"Only her husband died before - "

"Before they had time to complete it," Sherlock finished for her, watching her eyes go wide with the realization. "She tried to back out. Unsuccessfully, obviously."

The magnitude of the situation threatened to topple his self-control. They still needed proof. It was all speculation until then, regardless of his certainty. Which meant Molly being shoved into the lions' den with the promise of skills to rival the dead woman's. He felt the return of the shallowness in his chest, the tightening of his throat, his body betraying him as he tried to push away the worry. He didn't want her doing this, endangering herself. He wanted her back at Bart's, with him, showing him corpses and smuggling body parts.

It was raining hard when the plane landed in Derry. A black car again waited for them, the driver promising to provide Molly's sportbike the next morning, just as had been done in Vienna. They were delivered to an overly clichéd Irish city street, complete with A-frame roofs and whitewashed walls. Quiet, out of the way, and with a direct route out of the city, Sherlock noted.

The driver held an umbrella for Molly as she struggled with wet fingers to unlock the door to their new flat, finally shoving the water swollen wood open to a musty smelling stairwell. With a quick thank you, she hurried inside and Sherlock followed. The dark stairs ended on a second floor studio flat. Corner kitchen with a small table and two chairs, beige love seat facing an outdated television, and a queen size, wrought iron bed tucked against the wall by the window overlooking the street.

A totally foreign terror seized Sherlock as he realized the situation.

One look at Molly confirmed he was not alone in the realization. She looked as though she had just swallowed something bitter.

Dropping her bag to the floor, she crossed the room quickly and opened the door that sat opposite the bed, peering inside. She backed out and looked at him with the same seasick expression and pointed towards the door.

"Just… just a loo," she informed him, voice pitched a bit higher than normal. Shaking her head slightly, she crossed back to the kitchen and began opening drawers. "I'm going to _kill_… oh, if I ever get my hands on…"

"As much fun as the cryptic muttering is, Molly, would you mind filling me in on what you're doing?" Sherlock demanded, his irritation only halfhearted as his eyes slid warily to the bed again.

"It's very unlikely that anyone we will be encountering will suspect that I'm alive, let alone recognize me," she told him. "But it's not worth the risk."

He watched her carefully as she dug around in the kitchen for a time, finally pulling what she wanted from a drawer. Grabbing a chair from the table with one hand, she pulled it with her as she approached him. Hand outstretched, she presented him with a pair of scissors. He looked up into her eyes, knowing what she was asking of him. He forced away the horrified feeling that swept over him. Taking the cold steel in hand, he swallowed as she sat down in the chair, dragging the hair band away and combing her fingers through the braid, letting her hair spill over the back of the chair.

He blinked rapidly and reached out to thread his fingers into the soft cascade. The strangest feeling of regret took him, knowing he wouldn't get to run his hands through her long hair while he held her… He quickly shut down that train of thought. It wasn't what was needed in this moment. She must have sensed his hesitation.

"It's just hair, Sherlock," she said bravely. "It grows back."

He strove for passiveness as he slid the shears through her brown locks, doing his best to leave her with something close to a fashionable bob. He'd never cared about the fuss and maintenance of women's hair before, finding it utterly tedious, but he forced his hands to take care with Molly. Moving to kneel in front of her, he scrutinized his work, coming to the conclusion that it was as good as could be expected.

If it was possible, she looked even younger.

Then he noticed the bruise that had formed along her throat, just below her jaw. Light, but distinctly purple from the muzzle of the pistol. Feeling the rush of anger bubble up again, he reached out without thinking and tenderly brushed his fingers along the mark. He vaguely registered the rise and fall of her chest increase in speed.

"You really ripped into him," she said quietly, the amusement at the memory causing a small smile to appear on her face.

"I didn't like the way he touched you," he said gruffly, surprised by his own response.

"I didn't care for it much, myself," she agreed as his fingers slipped away from her throat. When he didn't respond, Molly tucked a now short strand of hair behind her ear and nervously increased her smile. "I'm famished… dinner?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Song of the Day for you all: "Arms" ~ Christina Perri**

**Happy reading!**

* * *

Dinner at the corner pub consisted more of Sherlock watching Molly eat in between bouts of staring off into space. Under normal circumstances, she would not drink while on the job, but she felt she had earned a pint. And technically, the work would not start until the next day anyway.

Truth be told, she was taking as much time as possible to finish her rarebit and fried egg, not terribly eager to return to the flat with its horrid lack of sleeping options.

She knew exactly who to blame for that.

She had been surprised that Mycroft waited so long to call her and she had not wanted the conversation witnessed by Sherlock on the plane. No doubt he knew who was calling her anyway

"Interesting how you interpret keeping my brother safe as going undercover for a sting operation."

She'd clenched her teeth at his words but held her ground.

"If you know how to pull him away once something catches his interest, please enlighten me," she had said, attempting to sound forceful.

"If I knew that, it would make many people's jobs much easier… though it would have made yours harder."

"Sorry?"

"You were allowed into his world, Doctor Hooper. You became his, just as much as John Watson and Detective Inspector Lestrade and Martha Hudson did. Perhaps more so. It was very fortunate. He didn't merely put up with you. He chose you."

"I… what on earth are you - "

"You caught his interest, whether you meant to or not. Though I suspect at times there was an effort involved," Mycroft had said with a knowing sigh. "And it made your task very easy."

"You're wrong," she lied through her teeth.

"Am I? We'll see."

Apparently, if Sherlock liked experiments, Mycroft Holmes downright adored them and was just as willing to make people the subject of them as his brother.

The thought left her terrified and thrilled, not unlike the feeling when she had been dragged onto the big ferris wheel at a fair when she was twelve, shaking, but dying to know what it was like. What was Mycroft seeing in Sherlock that she was so clearly missing? Surely he didn't care about her in that way, even if her 'death' had jolted some comprehension of her importance in his life. He didn't dabble in sentiment, didn't even play at it for amusement.

"You're thinking about the wrong things."

His voice startled her out of her musings, but she felt a blush creeping into her face at the fleeting thought that he could read exactly what she had been pondering.

"Wh-what exactly am I wasting my thoughts on?" she asked, trying to focus on the here and now and not let anything show.

"Don't know, but it's not the right thing," he told her, reaching forward to steal a chip off of her plate.

Molly nudged the plate toward him and folded her arms on the table. To her surprise, he worked his way through the remainder of the salty chips while he talked.

"You need to set your mind clear of everything but what lies ahead of you. Make room for everything you will need to remember, every detail that will be useful. Don't waste your time with extraneous thoughts. Lay a map in your mind of every person, every item you come across. If I can't be with you at every moment, it's imperative that you retain what you encounter."

It took Molly a moment to realize he was teaching her. Sherlock Holmes was teaching her his method, and with a fair amount of patience at that.

"We don't even know what situation I'm going into yet, how much I'll be given access to."

"Don't be naïve, Molly," he said in a low voice, though it held no contempt. "You know as well as I do that you are being sent into the heart of this operation. And I need you to be prepared… and safe."

If it was possible for looks to actually pierce flesh, she was sure she would have been at the mercy of his eyes in that moment. He had never, not once in five years, not when he was finally the one being read like a book, not when he was standing before her asking her to help kill him, looked at her like that… like he was about to lose her and couldn't bear it.

She nodded her understanding of his directions.

They walked back to the flat in the drizzling rain, stamping shoes and shedding coats in the stairwell.

It was next to impossible not to stare at the stupid bed waiting on the other side of the room, especially being exhausted and travel weary. Impossible not to dwell on sharing it… what was it he had _just_ been telling her about clearing her mind of extraneous thought?

"I'll rest on the sofa if I need to sleep," he told her, again seeming to read her mind.

She looked over at the sofa that was hardly large enough to seat two.

"You can't be serious."

"I doubt I'll need to sleep," he said, moving to the kitchen and grabbing the kettle to make a cup of tea. She watched him as he filled the kettle with water and placed it on the stove. Was it her imagination, or was that nervousness he was trying to conceal? Women were not his territory, she knew that well enough. Sharing a bed with one – was it really enough to make him that uncomfortable, that jumpy?

She accepted his offer of tea – more of a tin of teabags being shoved along the counter in her direction, but she saw the gesture for what it was – and settled on the sofa to let the chamomile ease her mind. Sherlock took possession of her laptop and was still seated at the table, completely absorbed, when she decided to go to bed.

Knowing he was off in his own mind, Molly looked at him as she lay on her side, pillow tucked tightly under her head. She would have been lying if she said she wasn't disappointed he had opted to stay removed. But it was Sherlock and he did things in his own way and wasn't that why she loved him in the first place?

She hated how right Mycroft had been, seeing what his brother never seemed to. At the end of the day, in spite of giving up on him ever returning the feeling, she did love him.

If Mycroft knew that about her, then what did he suspect about Sherlock?

With the quandary in her head and the soothing sound of Sherlock's typing in the background, Molly drifted into sleep.

The next morning, she woke to see him basically in the same position, his blazer discarded and the sleeves of his button down rolled up to his elbows. When she asked if he had slept at all, he made a noncommittal noise and gestured vaguely to the sofa. She took it as a yes. With Sherlock distracted by God knows what, she took the opportunity to slip to the corner market for a breakfast sandwich and some hair dye, having decided the cut was not drastic enough for a disguise if it came right down to it. She pulled a dark brown off the shelf, hoping it wouldn't make her look too severe.

As a slight afterthought, she nabbed a pastry for Sherlock. He seemed to have a penchant for the salty/sweet portion of the food pyramid.

He scooped it up the second she set it on the table, standing and placing a hand on her shoulder to set her in his seat.

He spent the next half an hour coaching her through what was obviously his whole night's research on families of resistant bacteria, enzyme production and antibiotic inhibition, and every possible visual of appropriate gram-negative cultures he could find. Several times, she considered reminding him that she did go to medical school and, in fact, worked in a profession that dealt regularly with bacteria cultures, but his breakneck speed of delivery was difficult to breach. The microbiology lecture was interspersed with his advice on the demeanor she should assume, the ways to catalogue who held power and who did not in such a faction of criminals, and about a dozen other tips on undercover work.

It slowly dawned on her why he felt the preparation was necessary: he knew he couldn't come with her. The group had already singled him out as knowing too much about the work, having something that would give them away. While she was dead to the network, he was not. She had grown so used to him working beside her in just a few short days that she had neglected to recognize that she would be on her own.

Well, shit.

After he seemed satisfied in the thoroughness of their work, she set about altering the color of her hair. He continued to look at her like she had robbed him of something, but she couldn't dwell on the thought for long as they were visited by two agents from MI6 to brief them on what was going on, one of whom Molly recognized immediately.

"Liam," she smiled as she let them into the flat, shaking the hand of the man who had been her mentor when she was a new agent. Ten years her senior, he had looked out for her in a world dominated by men and put off by a woman who found a calling in the macabre. Blonde, stocky, and Scandinavian, he had been, and no doubt still was, a force to be reckoned with.

"Good to see you, Molly," Liam said, lifting a hand to flick at her hair. "You look a good bit different than last time I saw you."

"That's the idea," she said, turning to Sherlock and gesturing him over. "Liam, this is Sherlock Holmes."

"The famous consulting detective," Liam said as he shook Sherlock's hand firmly. "Read a lot about you in the papers."

"Given the general idiocy of modern journalism, concerned as they are with distracting the masses and embellishing the mundane, I would forget everything you read if I were you," Sherlock advised, barely moving as he sized up the man standing before him. Liam stared at him for a beat before smiling.

"Your brother said you were interesting," he said before looking to Molly. "I like him. Agent Sullivan," he said, gesturing to the poor man who had been forced to wait through the awkward exchange. "He'll be the one getting you in."

Molly allowed them to set up on the kitchen table, casting a chastising look at Sherlock. He simply rolled his eyes and shrugged, leaning against the counter with arms crossed.

The group spent the better part of the day going over every detail of Molly's assignment. Agent Sullivan had an in to Sean Finn and had arranged a meeting for the next day. If she could gain their trust and prove herself an asset, she would be diving in headfirst to gather what they needed.

Lacking any sort of energy to prepare a meal after the agents left, Molly again suggested dinner at the pub. She was granted a slightly more conversational dining partner than the previous night, although as he started peppering her with questions she wished he would just go back to staring at her.

"He trained you."

"In a manner of speaking," she said, her spoon stilling in her soup. "He offered me a great deal of guidance when I was first starting out."

"Mm. Father figure," he stated confidently, twiddling with his unused napkin.

"Sometimes."

"And other times?"

Molly shrugged with one shoulder, feeling uncomfortable with the line of questioning.

"A good friend."

Sherlock subtly raised an eyebrow. Abandoning her spoon in the bowl, she dropped her hands, now shaking slightly, much to her displeasure, into her lap. She furrowed her brow, trying to decide if she should say the words floating in her head.

"I'm not interested in him," she finally said. Sherlock gave her a look of exaggerated disinterest.

"Wonderful. If you were, I would begin to question his qualifications as an agent of the British government, given your history."

She groaned in frustration, palming her forehead as she rested her elbow on the table.

"I date _one_ lunatic and suddenly every man… you just can't let well enough… you - I," Molly sputtered, feeling the flush rise into her face as she glared at him, knowing she looked about as menacing as an angry chipmunk.

He chuckled. The idiot actually had the audacity to chuckle.

And if weren't for the gentle glint in his eyes, the softness in his features as he looked at her, she would have been furious. How could she be when he looked so… _happy_… to be sitting with her, attempting to joke with her in typical Sherlock fashion?

She let out her own laugh as she realized how ridiculous her words had sounded. It felt good to laugh with him, good to see his lighter side for once.

If his red-rimmed eyes were any indication, Molly knew he was in need of sleep that night.

He absolutely refused her offer to take the sofa and let him have the bed to himself.

* * *

Sherlock woke to the feel of a warm body pressed into his. It took him a moment to register that they had somehow gravitated towards each other in the night, his arm tucked easily across Molly's stomach as she lay on her back. Her head tipped into his chest and he had curled into her, his body pressed against her shoulder and hip and a leg draped possessively over hers. The feeling was so similar to what he had experienced in his dream that he had to strain to make sure he was not still sleeping. The warmth and the solidness of her body were very real. In fact, the heat was all too pleasant. His eyes slid shut in dread as a flush burned into his neck and face, becoming aware of his erection pressed between his stomach and her hip.

Oh. God.

Oh _god_.

It had been years, bloody years, since he had woken with this particular problem and it had never happened with another person present to bear witness. Panicked, he scoured her for signs that she was even remotely awake.

Mistake, oh that was a mistake. The sight of her folded against him, her chest rising evenly with each breath, only sent more blood coursing through him.

Wincing slightly, he carefully lifted his leg away and pulled his hips back, praying that he wouldn't wake her. He slipped silently from the bed, feeling lost and embarrassed and not entirely sure he wanted to leave her side. Bolting for the bathroom, he shut and locked the door before turning the shower on, stripping from his pyjamas and gasping for breath as he stepped under the cold stream of water.

What did people do in these situations?

Ah, yes, thoughts of mundane things.

He pressed his palms against the tile of the shower and leaned forward, letting the water drench his hair. Television. Small talk. Public transport. Pop literature. Most people talking at crime scenes. Anderson talking at crime scenes. Anderson talking about anything.

That would do it.

It was not bad enough that her perfume had lingered on the sofa the night before last, making it impossible for him to catch any rest on the stupid piece of dwarfed furniture; now, he was facing the consequence he had always known would await him if he was not careful, _meticulous_, with corporeal matters. How could he have been so stupid?

He needed a fucking cigarette.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: So I wrote the good majority of this one during recesses while serving on a jury for a criminal trial... that was an interesting experience and kind of strangely inspirational for writing a Sherlock story. Hope you like it :)**

**Song of the Day: "Giving Up" ~ Ingrid Michaelson**

* * *

Molly woke slowly, never one to be able to jump right out of bed and greet the day with an overabundance of energy. She could function perfectly well before the sun rose, but it took a good five minutes to get her brain in gear. Stretching slightly, she found the bed empty. Frowning, she decided sleepily that she much preferred it occupied. Sherlock had woken her slightly in the night, draping his arm across her in his sleep and making a contented noise. She would have lost the bet if she ever had to wager on him being a cuddler, but it would have been happily lost.

Opening her eyes, she found the object of her thoughts huddled in the corner of the kitchen, mug of coffee in hand and leaning against the counter in a crisp new suit. He looked as though he had, quite consciously, tucked himself into the furthest corner in the room from her.

Oh dear. What was going on in that mind of his?

"Morning," she offered, pulling a hand through her hair to minimize the bed-head look as she slid out from beneath the covers and padded across the room.

He gave her a smile fraught with undertones in response. She paused and narrowed her eyes before reaching for the cup he had set out for her. It still floored her that he had remembered how she took her coffee and bothered to have it ready for her when she woke up. The gesture did not hide the fact that he looked about ready to jump out of his skin. He actively avoided her gaze.

"You're being weird," she blurted out.

"In relation to what?" he drawled, taking a long sip from his cup and surveying the room he doubtlessly had memorized already.

"It's the hair, isn't it?" she teased, trying to lighten the mood and bring him back around to her. "Just can't bear to look at me anymore?"

"Molly…"

"I would expect the superficial attitude from other men, Sherlock, but not - "

"Molly," he cut her off firmly, his gaze almost severe.

It took her completely by surprise. Her mouth hung open for several moments, her mind oscillating between putting forth words to calm or words to defend.

"It doesn't work like that anymore," she said with a shake of her head, exhausted from keeping up with his mood swings. "I… I thought you figured out a long time ago that you can't just snap at me and expect me to shut off."

"Of course it doesn't bloody work like that anymore, because you're not the same person, are you?" he said, his voice a painful mix of anger and misery. With a forcefulness that made her jump, he slammed the cup on the counter and dragged his hands through his hair as he spoke. "Because this isn't you, this ridiculous joking to get out of an uncomfortable conversation. _None_ of this is you. The Molly Hooper I knew didn't drive a motorcycle and didn't fraternize with government agents or carry guns and didn't volunteer her life for government operations. This is not you!"

"It is me, Sherlock," she countered, her voice rising. They had been so fine last night, why did he have to ruin it with his criticism and his judgment? "It always has been me, but you frightened it out of me more times than I can count! You came in all puppy eyes and false compliments to get what you needed before tearing down every flaw you ever found and you have the nerve to stand there and tell me I was the one deceiving _you_? That's _bollocks_ and you know it."

She could tell in an instant that her words struck a nerve. He looked as though she had physically slapped him.

"God, you actually never thought about that," she said, shaking her head in amazement. "All the times you pretended… making me think that you…"

"That I what?"

"I dunno, I _dunno_, Sherlock, but it doesn't even matter, does it? Because you never meant any of it. And that's where it differs, isn't it? I never said a word to you that I didn't mean."

The response she was waiting for never came. She squeezed her eyes shut briefly against his apparent passivity, furious that she had allowed herself to be lulled into a false sense of security with him yet again. She turned away to begin readying herself for the day ahead.

"That's not true, you know."

Against her better judgment she stopped, her curiosity about what he could possibly have to say winning over.

"While I confess to a certain amount of… manipulation that I have come to regret a hundred times over, not every word I said to you had that intention. I only ever wanted to help you see the truth in life, to be a better…" He shook his head, stepping closer to her and amending his words when he saw the roll of her eyes and resigned drop of her shoulders. "No, there is no better… I _meant_ what I said, Molly… you do count. You count a great deal more than most people. Losing you was highly unpleasant."

She did not have to dig deep to find the double meaning in that phrase. It struck her very hard that his worry about who she was and the sincerity of their relationship was so profound.

"I'm still here, Sherlock," she said softly. "Behind the gun and the motorcycle, I'm still your Molly."

The air seemed to be sucked from the room with the way he looked at her. For the second time in twenty-four hours he presented her with a brand new expression. This one had her knees begging for support. She had been fairly confident she had seen Sherlock Holmes' look of seduction before; she had never been more wrong. What had been played off as seduction had been missing a level of wanting and irresistible timidity that had never looked so beautiful on a man before.

She pulled in a breath as he stepped towards her and let it out in a cry mingled with frustration a second later when her mobile sent a shrill ring through the room.

It took physical effort to step away and answer it, knowing exactly who would be calling.

"Sullivan is waiting in the car downstairs," she muttered as she ended the call. "I have to go."

He gave her a barely discernible nod and she scrambled to get ready, already flustered by losing track of time and having the fantastic addition of fighting with Sherlock and then being turned on faster than she ever had been in her life.

He was waiting by the top of the stairs when she emerged from the bathroom, dressed in an intentionally plain outfit of grey trainers, dark blue skinny trousers, and a brown jumper. Her rain slicker was in his hands and she thanked him when he held it out for her to slip on. Gently, he spun her around to face him and his gaze roamed over her face before dropping down, pulling her close. Her breath caught as she was tucked securely under his chin, his hand burying itself into her hair. Fingers fisting into his shirt, she closed her eyes and felt his lips brush against her temple.

"Be careful, Molly," he murmured into her hair.

* * *

Sean Finn stared at her with watery hazel eyes, mussing his dirty blonde hair with one hand while gripping a pint with the other. If he wasn't drunk when Molly had found him at the pub on the other side of the city from the flat, he was well on his way. She had fed him every line that had been given to her: she owed a debt, willing to do what was demanded of her to pay it, and was expected to offer her skills. A false identity had been given, complete with an elaborate background in case they checked. Dropping the name of a man who had secretly turned informant in a closely tied group sealed the deal.

He downed the rest of his pint and stood up, gesturing with his head for her to follow.

Her heart thudded in her chest and her grip on the passenger door was white knuckled as he drove them through Derry and out onto a country road. The tipsy driving was only part of it. She wanted Sherlock with her fairly desperately when Finn turned onto a dirt lane and a grey, single-story industrial building came into sight, surrounded by a tall chain link fence topped with barbed wire. Anyone stumbling across it would have mistaken it for a modern ag building. They drove through an open gate and pulled up alongside the building.

She took in as much as she could as he led her through a metal side door. There were security cameras along the building, but she could tell at a glance that they were for show. The armed man patrolling outside and a keycode lock were the security. Inside, the building was split into four quadrants with two halls forming a cross between them. Fluorescent light sporadically spotlighted the halls. It seemed to be completely deserted.

Finn brought her to a small room, bare except for a white counter and a collection of lab equipment. Two men were waiting for them, one of whom thrust a bundle of protective lab clothing at her.

They put her through her paces and she focused on Sherlock's words of advice to steady her work. Preparing cultures, slides, and assessing gram stains all came second nature. Manipulating live cultures to preserve specimens took particular effort, not being part of her typical work. She shut her mind off to her surroundings, imagining she was back at Bart's. If Sherlock hovering over her work didn't faze her, this certainly shouldn't. After completing every task they placed before her, the men nodded at Finn and left the room.

"Let's go, girl," he said, reaching for a pack of cigarettes before they had even left the building.

"That's it?" Molly asked as they headed towards the car. Finn gave her a wolfish half smile.

"Yeh don't think yeh get to see all the goodies on the first day, do yeh?" he said, pulling the driver's door open.

Molly felt a mix of success and disappointment as she looked out at the mottled pattern of shadows the clouds left on the rolling hills. The plan had worked, but she had nothing substantial. Except a location. A course of action was making itself known in her head, one that she knew Sherlock would be fully behind when she told him.

Finn dropped her at the same smarmy pub and leaned out the window as she stepped onto the curb.

"Ten o'clock tomorrow, back here. Yeh get an escort until they decide they like ya."

He gave another smile and drove off.

* * *

Sherlock was nearly pulling his hair out waiting for Molly to return. He had already caved and stole down to the corner market for a pack of cigarettes. Nothing about the morning had been normal or in his control and there was nothing he hated more than loss of control. The only thing was, he didn't hate all of it and that single fact had him practically crawling out of his skin. He had liked waking up next to her. He had despised starting a fight because he didn't know how else to react to what he was feeling about her. More than anything, he had damn well liked the look on her face when he had moved towards her, about to… what? Snog her silly before she went undercover?

He stared up at the cumulus clouds as he blew out a stream of smoke, leaning out of the open window of the flat. The waiting was threatening to drive him up a wall and he burned through half the pack by the time he saw the black car pulling up to the curb. He flicked the cigarette ashes into the flower box of the window and pushed himself away from the sill.

His pent up energy was only fueled by what she told him and the glaring fact that she was not about to let the situation rest. Taking in the determined look on her face, he grabbed his Belstaff and tossed her coat back to her. She stared at him, somewhat surprised as he stashed his gun in the waist of his pants.

"You're already planning on breaking in," he told her with a sly grin. "What better time than the present?"

Molly grinned back and grabbed her weapon, holster, and satchel before following him downstairs.

By the time Molly had driven them to a petrol station she had taken good note of on the ride back with Finn, the sun was just beginning to dip down on the horizon. She parked the bike and cheerfully told the station attendant that they were on holiday and wanting to go for a sunset walk through the hills.

"Should only be a mile walk over in that direction," she told Sherlock, nodding towards the countryside.

Darkness had fully fallen by the time they carefully approached the back of the structure, keeping a watchful eye on the guard as he rounded the corner out of sight. The lack of security was quite surprising to him, but he determined that funds must have been disappearing with the stall in their work. He was reminded again of how much people were driven and controlled by such fleeting things in life – money, food… sex.

Quite frankly, it was hard not to think about that last one while he watched Molly whip a pair of bolt cutters from her satchel and set about breaking them through the fence while he kept watch. He hadn't been aware that breaking and entering proficiency could be an attractive trait in a woman.

They slid silently under the gap and kept flush to the side of the building as she led him to the backdoor. Sherlock pulled out his pocket torch and made quick work of the keycode, opening the door and letting Molly take the lead before slipping in behind her. They were at the end of the long center hall she had described, the lights darkened with the exception of a single ceiling lamp in the middle of the building. Three doors dotted each side before the halls intersected. While she peered into the rooms on one side of the hall, Sherlock inspected the other side, quietly opening the first door and eliminating the room as important before moving on. At the third door, he stopped and looked pointedly at her just as she was abandoning her side.

The lab room was exceedingly close to the size of Bart's own, but the walls of the darkened room were lined with shelves stocked with files, corked beakers and Erlenmeyer flasks, and jars of varying chemicals and compounds. Agar and petri dishes abounded, labeled and fastidiously stacked. Molly bee-lined for a box of slides on the shelf labeled _Escherichia coli G1 – G27._ She flipped on the nearest microscope and inserted the first slide into the stage clips.

"Oh my god," Molly breathed as she adjusted the knobs and looked through the lens, replacing one slide after another as she took in the evidence before her. "If this is what Mahon was working on… oh my _god_."

Standing from the bench, she let him take her place and inspect the slides for himself. His eye was not nearly as trained as hers, but he got the idea. Generation after generation of CRE bacteria, each increasing in resistance levels until…

"The last three generations," she said. "They are all resistant. Gram-negative, every last one."

"They've been propagating resistance." The information was heavy.

The banging of a door out in the hall startled them both. Sherlock shut down the scope quickly while Molly dumped the slides back into their box, hastening to return the room to order. Sherlock's move towards the door was abandoned as footsteps echoed in the hall and approached the lab. Molly grabbed his hand and pulled him to the utility cupboard on the far side of the room, shoving him into it before following and quietly shutting the door. Moments later, the door to the lab opened.

The utility cupboard was small. Far too small. His back pressed into the wooden shelves holding all manner of items, but it was still not enough room. Molly had her entire backside pushed against him.

He groaned inwardly. This was entirely unfair.

She was blessedly still as they listened to the person moving around in the room on the other side of the door. One close pass of the cupboard had Molly drawing a silent breath and pressing even further into him. Sherlock closed his eyes, grasping blindly in his mind for something, _anything_, that would distract him from the feeling of her body so close to his. Apparently being in mortal danger was not enough for him at the moment. He cursed every god he could think of for choosing this exact moment to take away his ability for extraordinary self-control.

After what seemed like an eternity, the footsteps receded and the door to the lab shut. He let out the breath he had been holding as Molly opened the cupboard door and stepped away from him. Just when he thought he had escaped any humiliation, she shot a subtle smile his way and headed for the door.

He had no time to fully interpret the look as they bolted for the exit, the sound of footsteps still echoing around the corner. They crossed the yard quickly and Molly darted under the fence before he could pull the chain link up for her. He knew the moment she hissed out a breath that the metal had snagged and he reached forward to unhook the caught fabric before hurrying to join her on the other side, setting the fencing back to a neutral position before they took off into the dark.

She winced all the way up the stairs to the flat and dropped her jacket on the ground the moment they were upstairs. He could see the faint line of blood on her shirt from where the fence had caught.

"I'm fine, Sherlock," she muttered.

"I had no idea they changed the definition of that word." He rolled his eyes, removing his coat and blazer and rolling his sleeves up as he headed straight for the bathroom and the first aid kit under the sink. He returned to the main room and pointed to the sofa. "Sit."

"I've had my tetanus updated, it's really not that bad," she insisted, sitting so that her back was to him and pulling her jumper off without the least bit of bashfulness.

He shut his eyes, reeling in every urge he had to touch her and trying not to be overwhelmed with how she looked in her burgundy bra. Swallowing, he opened his eyes again and lowered himself onto the sofa, unscrewing the cap to the rubbing alcohol. She was right, the cut was not so bad - barely two inches long and not at all deep. Still, the risk of infection was there. He tipped the bottle over a cotton ball and gently ran it along the cut, tensing as she inhaled through her teeth at the sting. He gingerly applied an antimicrobial ointment and peeled back the protective paper on a large Band-Aid. Smoothing the bandage over her ivory skin, he let his fingers linger ever so slightly. Her muscles rippled beneath his touch and he watched the gooseflesh spread rapidly across her skin. His breathing hitched at the sight of her body reacting to him, an enticing flush painting her back as he saw her chest rise quickly. The muscles in his body tightened.

So this was what desire felt like.

"Sherlock…"

"I find that I… am more fond of you than I ever planned."

Well there it was, then.

Molly turned her head and gave him a timid smile, the blush touching her cheeks. Mycroft had certainly picked the right woman to watch him – she was the perfect pairing of warrior and ingénue. It was strangely arousing to him.

"May I kiss you, Molly?"

The words were gone from his mouth before he had a chance to turn them over in his head and he felt like a bloody dandy the second he said it. Why had he never learned to do this properly?

Then he saw it: the dark centers of her eyes flaring like a stoked fire, the dip of her throat as she swallowed hard, her lips parting in an unspoken answer. He took it all in, never wanting to forget the way she looked in this moment.

"God, please do," she breathed, her body tipping towards him in want.

In the instant his mouth found hers, he regretted every moment he had spent with the woman and not understood what was waiting for him. Nothing could have prepared him for the sensation that hit his body as her lips pressed against his, her hand coming up to his shoulder to steady herself. His own hands found her hips without direction from his brain, the entirety of his nerve system seeming to consolidate in an overwhelming tingling in his spine. This was different, oh God, this was so different from the few other times he'd given in to the idea that he would be interested in the physical.

This was the answer to every ache he'd felt since that horrible phone call. The pieces fell into place like an avalanche. The mourning had not simply been about the loss of Molly the pathologist, the friend; he had been mourning the lost chance of this very moment and he hadn't even known it.


	10. Chapter 10

**"The Fear You Won't Fall" ~ Joshua Radin**

* * *

Fifteen years had been an absurd amount of time to go suppressing any sexual urges he had. It was not helping the matter that Molly was not just any woman, there to satisfy some physical need and then be cast away. She was pulling out the feelings he had spent years loudly proclaiming he did not possess like a parlour trick, swatches of emotional fabric tumbling from him in an unbelievable manner, one right after the other. She turned them over and over in her hands, giving him no choice but to trust her and allow them to continue spilling forth.

Her lips … how could he have ever told her there was anything wrong with her mouth, ever? Soft and warm and perfectly suited to him, that small part of her anatomy was enough to make Sherlock think he might lose control just from kissing her. In a mind that was hypersensitive and pleasure deprived, the sensations were threatening to become overpowering. He began to separate and catalogue each new thrill as it came: her hands sliding over his shoulders, one finding purchase in his hair and the other gripping at his shirt, the soft whimper in the back of her throat as he pulled her closer, the way her mouth opened to him and her tongue teased along his lower lip…

The processing effort quickly lost ground when Molly lifted herself onto one knee and swung her other leg over him, leaning him back against the sofa and settling in his lap. The effort to remember how to breathe properly took up most of his brain activity. There was no hiding his reaction to her this time as she kissed him into oblivion, her hips rocking exquisitely against his groin. He groaned into her mouth, hands mapping her body as he lost himself to the sensation of skin, lips, tongue, everything Molly.

Sherlock practically growled when she pulled away from him, her breathing uneven and her hands sliding from his shoulders to his neck without coordination. She couldn't seem to find a place to let them settle. Feeling his own hands pulling at her waist, he realized he was not in much better shape.

"I, I… this is," Molly stammered, taking a deep breath and shaking her head with a lopsided smile, unable to find the words. She pulled her fingers along his jaw, her eyes searching his. He watched her face drift through about five emotions. She bit her lip and stared at him from beneath her lashes. "Do you want … I mean, do you want to stop?"

His chemical flooded brain struggled to keep up with her train of thought. Stop? Why in hell would he want to stop? He could feel the heat radiating from her body, her skin impossibly soft as he slid his hands around her waist again. He began to wonder if her neck would feel just as soft under his lips.

"Why would we stop?" he murmured as he lowered his mouth to investigate her neck. If the shiver that went through her body was any indication, he had discovered a sweet spot.

"I wasn't … wasn't sure what you were comf – oh god – comfortable with," she gasped, much to the benefit of his ego. "Quite frankly, your experience is a bit of an enigma."

"I can assure you I'm not as inexperienced as some people would like to believe," he purred against her skin, letting his fingers trail up to the hooks of her bra and deftly undoing them to prove his point. "Though it has been far longer for me than it has been for you."

"Oh how could you _possibly_ know how long - "

"Three years, seven months."

Molly let out a yelp as he wrapped his arms tightly around her waist and stood up, walking the short distance to the bed and lowering them down onto the unmade pile of bedding. If she had any response to his deduction, she didn't vocalize it. She simply stared up at him with more adoration than anyone ever had. He swallowed at the wave of affection he felt, his fingers brushing along the side of her face before following the line of her neck and her shoulder, catching the strap of her bra to lower it down her arm.

She lifted her arms, shedding the bra quickly and tossing it to the side. If he had regrets about the comments on her mouth, he downright wanted to slap himself for the comments on her breasts. Small, yes. Repellant? Not in a million years. Her hands slid down his chest and her fingers worked their way through the buttons on his shirt. He sat back briefly to shrug out of the clothing before lowering himself once again, eager to feel her skin against his. His hips pressed deliciously against hers and she only encouraged it, gripping his lower back with her hands, legs wrapping possessively over his.

He wanted to say something. Felt like he should say something.

"Stay with me, Molly," he whispered against her cheek, not even sure he was making sense. "Stay mine."

"I'll stay."

Her hand rose quickly, wrapping around the back of his neck to hold him in place as she brought her mouth to his in a searing kiss.

It hurt, how much he wanted her.

His mind shut off to everything but Molly. Molly nearly stealing his breath with the intensity of her mouth. Molly dragging her fingers along the waistline of his trousers, leaving a fire in the path of the skin she touched. Molly burying her hand in his hair… did he like having his hair tugged? Oh yes, apparently he did, very much.

It took stunningly little time for him to understand why, beyond his ever-convenient reasoning that sentiment was a weakness, his last attempt at this part of life had been disappointing. The woman had been a temporary distraction in the mind numbingly dull year after Uni, practically an experiment. It was the result of a desperate attempt at match making from his mother, a scramble to see him paired with someone of their stature in society. As with most girls with too much privilege and too little brains, she had been boring, nearly listless, and he had felt nothing of the fuss he heard from his classmates and the pop songs they seemed to cling to.

Molly was none of that. She was more.

Her head fell back as he moved his mouth to the soft skin of her neck, lingering to enjoy the scent and feel of her. Reaching up, he gently palmed her breast, watching her body for signs that his ministrations were pleasing. It was the first time he had truly cared about the pleasure of the person lying with him. He was determined to get it right. The desperate whimper and the squirm of her hips as he lowered his mouth to her flesh seemed to indicate he was on the right track.

She was practically writhing when he finally reached down to unbutton her trousers, sitting back again to discard her shoes and tugging off the offending piece of clothing. He gave her an appreciative smile at the matching burgundy knickers, slipping his fingers under the elastic to help them join the rest of her clothing.

Barely having the chance to fully take in the vision of her lying unclothed before him, he clenched his jaw for some semblance of control as she pushed herself up and reached for his own trousers. Shoes, trousers, and pants were discarded in a flurry and she was pulling him back down on top of her, the heat from her body making him shudder and ache with need.

Forcing some sense into his head, he flung open the drawer on the bedside table and pulled out a small foil packet. Molly raised an eyebrow.

In a flood of adrenaline and an absurd amount of 'what if's' floating through his mind, he had bought them along with the cigarettes. He told her as much.

"I know you're on contraceptives, but I figured…"

He had merely been trying to be prepared, never assuming anything, but for a moment he was afraid she would be outraged at his apparent presumption that he would get her into bed. He was immensely relieved when she smiled gratefully and leaned up to kiss him deeply. His hands trembled a bit from being out of practice, but it was a fortunately simple concept.

He braced his weight on his forearms, watching her for any signs that she had changed her mind. He was throbbing, overcome with the desire to bury himself in her, but if she had said the word, he would have stopped. Instead, his eyes slid shut momentarily as she reached between them and guided him towards her.

Sherlock had never seen anything like the look of bliss on her face as he slid into her. Pulling her tight, he buried his face in her shoulder, feeling nothing but warmth, the clench of her muscles, her heart hammering against his chest.

The world faded away and all that existed was the feeling of Molly's body and the fire building in his belly, threatening to explode. He could feel her tensing, hear her gasping his name. He claimed her lips and thrust deeper into her, bringing a hand to brush against her hardened nipple. Moments later, her nails dug into his back and she cried into his kiss, hips grinding against his. His vision erupted with stars at the feeling of her orgasm, fire shooting through him as his body rocked uncontrollably into hers. He groaned her name over and over into the curve of her neck, holding onto her like his life depended on it.

Minutes later, he still felt his body shaking, her hand tracing a soothing path up and down his back.

"You okay?" she asked, placing a kiss on his temple. He chuckled, the sound low and strong in the quiet of the room.

"Immensely," he replied, pulling back to look at her flushed face, her hair pushed out at odd angles from beneath her head. He could only imagine what his looked like given the attention it had been receiving from her hands.

"Good," she said, smiling as she reached up to trace a line along his face.

"You?"

"Wonderfully okay."

"Good…"

He allowed her to drag him into the shower with her, exploring languidly as they soaped away the sweat and sex from their bodies. Idly, he checked to make sure they had not upset her bandage. When he tried to broach the topic of maintaining her safety and not letting anything lower her defenses, she shushed him.

"We can worry about that in the morning," she told him, nuzzling against his chest. "Just let me have this moment."

Between missing dinner and the various activities of the evening, even Sherlock admitted to hunger. Molly rummaged around in the kitchen for several minutes, coming up with some cheese, apples, and a loaf of bread from the food that had been stocked for them.

"Sheppard's dinner," she grinned as she sliced and Sherlock plated. "That's what my dad used to call it. Personally, I think it was a way to glorify his inability to cook when my mum went on trips and left us two alone."

Sherlock tucked away the information, adding it to the room he was rebuilding for her.

They ate in bed, with Sherlock wrapping the bed sheet about his waist and Molly slipping into his shirt - a sight he did not think he would get tired of seeing. She told him about the inventive meals her father used to prepare and asked if he ever had to suffer a similar fate as a child.

"We had a cook," he confessed, pushing an apple slice around the plate with his finger. "I can't recall either of my parents ever preparing a meal."

"Hm," Molly contemplated his words. "No noodles and frankfurters for the Holmes boys, then?"

"No, thank god," he said, giving her a lopsided smile.

She tucked right against him when they settled in bed, her eyelids already drooping and her nose pressed into his chest. Sherlock held her close, resting his chin on the top of her head and rubbing his thumb against the skin on her back. Claiming to be too hot, she had shed his shirt, much to his chagrin. He was probably the only man in the world to choose nudity second to wearing his clothes, but he was not terribly concerned about convention when it came to those things.

He felt sublimely calm.

There had always been an assumption in the back of his mind that if he ever experienced sex again it would leave him peevish and disheveled.

Instead, he felt … centered. And he knew it was owing to Molly.

He closed his eyes and forced his mind to fall in line with her attitude. They could deal with everything else in the morning – he wanted this moment.


	11. Chapter 11

**_A/N: I can not thank you all enough for the support and encouragement. Really, truly, it means the world. _**

**_Song o' the Day: "Time Is Running Out" ~ Muse (because I needed a little BAMF inspiration for this one)  
_**

* * *

_It wasn't a dream_.

In the blurry moments between sleeping and consciousness, Molly felt the memories of the previous night solidify in her mind. Her body was more relaxed than it had been in a long while (three years, seven months, as Sherlock had so accurately pointed out) and the muscles of her thighs were sweetly sore. As if the physical evidence was not comfort enough that she had not been dreaming, she had the benefit of Sherlock's lean body wrapped tightly against her back, his hand placed firmly around her hip.

She had wanted nothing more than this for the better part of five years. Well, that was not entirely true. She had wanted to do her job well, to give answers to the families that came into her morgue and the crimes that needed solving. She had wanted the safety of her friends and colleagues, Sherlock most of all. In the years of her assignment at Bart's, she had wanted some way to make it all become her real life. She had rather hoped she could just slip away from her other obligations and live in the contentment of a normal career, a normal life; as normal as pathology allowed, at any rate.

After five years of attachment to a life that was not truly hers, her duties came roaring back and reminded her that it had all been very fleeting, no matter what she had wanted to cling to. Her heart had been slowly closing to the lovelorn feelings that had only brought her heartache and by the time she had been faced with leaving everything behind, Sherlock's indifferent behavior had only made things easier.

Strange how the life she wanted had decided to follow her and prove all of her intuition wrong.

The chill from the early morning air settled on Molly's exposed shoulders and she shivered, pulling the blankets up to her chin and snuggling further into the warmth of Sherlock's body.

Not surprisingly, he was already awake.

He shifted against her, sliding his hand along her stomach and making it very clear he was pleased to be waking up next to her.

She moaned softly as his hand drifted down, gentle in his exploration until his fingers brushed the exact right spot and she gasped, her body leaning into his touch. Nerves bristling with pleasure, Molly was almost embarrassed at how quickly her body responded to him. Her hands gripped blindly at the pillow tucked beneath her head, whispering his name as Sherlock continued to slide his fingers over her, pulling her to the edge.

She could feel her muscles fluttering, the slow build of her climax starting when he suddenly pulled away and she groaned in frustration. If she hadn't instantly heard the ripping of the condom packet, the man would have been in very hot water.

Sherlock pulled again at her hip, coaxing her onto her back as he came to rest over her, settling between her thighs. Unable to stop her eyes from roaming, she took in the sight of his beautifully muscled body, his smooth skin, his absolutely tousled hair, and his eyes staring into hers, dark with desire – a sight she had dreamed of for so long. Her hands slid along his torso and settled on his hips, pulling him towards her. He clearly got the message, pushing into her and latching his mouth onto the curve of her neck, sure to leave his mark.

Her previously interrupted pleasure returned tenfold and it wasn't long before the friction of his movements had warmth flooding through her, her legs shaking as her body convulsed around him. His movement only increased as she reached her high, leaving her gasping until he let out a feral groan, his own release pulsing inside of her.

If the night before had been a culmination of days and years of yearning, hastened and driven by the need to be together, the morning seemed to her the beginning of something deeper. She knew him well enough to understand that this sort of change in their relationship would not be allowed lightly, not with the way Sherlock conducted his life.

And the way he had touched her, the way he had whispered her name, asking her to stay with him. She would, too. The second the whole thing was over she would make it abundantly clear to Mycroft that St. Bart's morgue was where she belonged and he could bloody well keep his sharp nose out of their business from that moment on. No matter how much he had… helped.

"Molly, whatever has your mind occupied, kindly stop taking it out on my arms" Sherlock murmured, and she could feel his smile against her skin.

The fingers of her hands loosened on his biceps, allowing him to pull away from her. Molly missed him immediately, though it was eased by the way he propped himself up next to her, his free hand trailing along her side.

"Sorry," she said, running her fingers over the pink marks on his arm. "Just thinking… about when all of this can be over. And we can have our lives back."

"And it made you angry?" he said, his brow furrowing.

"No, no," she hastened to answer, laughing a little. "That thought made me very happy. The thought of your brother's meddling, however…"

"He frequently has that effect," Sherlock agreed. His frown deepened and he focused his gaze on the spot where his fingers brushed her ribcage. "Though I think I would prefer it if you didn't think of him when we're… otherwise engaged."

Molly made a valiant effort to control her laughter, rolling over to press several kisses onto his shoulder and neck while he firmly insisted he did not know what was so funny about the request.

"Trust me, I was not thinking about Mycroft during any of that," she said, smiling as she slipped out of his embrace and reached for his shirt that had been thrown to the floor. Slipping her arms into the sleeves, she nodded towards the bathroom. "Go clean yourself up, I'll make us some coffee."

"Have you always been this bossy, Molly?" he asked as he stood up and grabbed his pyjama bottoms, holding them strategically rather than putting them on.

"Not bossy, assertive," she corrected, popping the last few buttons of the shirt into place. She looked up to see him looking at her with that lovely half-smile on his face.

"It suits you."

* * *

The day unfolded in much the same way as the day before. Molly put in a phone call to Liam to report on what she knew from her undercover work and the location of the building. When she finished the call, she had to explain to Sherlock yet again why what they had found the night before could not be communicated until she was exposed to it legitimately.

"We broke in," she told him. "If we call in the guard and find nothing beyond a microbe experiment – however disturbing – it won't legally hold."

It did not shock her that the concept was hard for him to grasp.

The good news was that she knew they were not wasting their time and it was only a matter of waiting before she was able to get the evidence she needed.

When her phone chimed, alerting her to Sullivan's arrival, the mood was palpably different when she met Sherlock at the top of the stairs. He stared at her for only a moment before pulling her to him again, lowering his mouth to hers. Her head went light at his caress, the kiss ending far too soon. She looked up into his blue-green eyes when he placed his hands on either side of her head, tipping her face up.

"Put me out of your mind," he said quietly. "You can't risk any distractions."

"Not kissing me like that before I leave would go a long way in avoiding distraction," she said, though her gaze was sober.

"I am quite serious, Molly," he told her. "Your safety is the most important thing."

She placed a hand along his jaw, brushing his freshly shaved cheek with her thumb, and promised him she would be okay.

Her second day in the lab was as short, and only slightly less cryptic, as the first. Still relegated to the sterile room with only the equipment they deemed her worthy to use, she was tasked with going through vials of specimens and sorting out the viable ones, discarding the rest. She did not need the warning about extreme diligence with her protective gear from the man left to supervise her. Knowing what she was likely handling had put all her senses on high alert.

Logically, she knew that the cases of infection usually occurred in hospitals, mostly in people with weakened immune systems. However, those cases were naturally occurring and not the result of who knew how many months of artificial gene selection to create a veritable army of superbugs.

She removed every article of clothing, gloves, and mask as though her advising professor from Uni was watching, scrubbing out with great care.

The relief she felt upon leaving was too great to be ruined even by the liquored leer of Sean Finn as he drove her back to the city. The car turned onto the street of his favored pub, slowing as it approached. Molly noted an older man sitting on the bench outside, his pipe billowing smoke as his tethered dog strained to capture the attention of another patron leaning against the stone wall. Her eyes widened as they drifted up and landed on the man's face.

To anyone passing by, Sherlock would have looked just like any other boyo, taking a long drag on his cigarette as he stared down with annoyance at the pup desperate to be his friend. He had donned slate grey trousers, a deep blue knit jumper over his collared shirt, and a grey wool cap.

He looked downright delectable, even more so when he finally deigned to reach down and give the overjoyed dog a scratch behind the ear.

Molly gave no indication of their acquaintance as she climbed from the car, happy when Finn drove off with barely a glance in her direction. When she was sure they were quite safe, she turned a disbelieving gaze on him.

"What in the hell are you doing?"

"The flat was getting unbearably dull," he told her, snuffing the cigarette out against the side of the building before tossing it in the waste bin on the sidewalk. "It was either this or finding out if I could shoot the flowers off their stems in the planter box. Something tells me your boss would not appreciate the waste of bullets."

The old man looked up at them, alarmed. Sherlock simply narrowed his eyes.

"You've had three whiskey's before five o'clock and you've been conversing with your dog," he said dryly. "Would you like me to explain which one of us is unstable?"

Molly grabbed his arm and pulled him away, shooting a quick apology to the man as she hurried them along.

"Do you understand that people at that pub could be involved?" she muttered under her breath.

"I certainly did not think Finn chose it for its charm," Sherlock said as he slipped his arm from her grasp and laid his hand at the small of her back, guiding her around the corner. "There was no one to be concerned with, unless you count the bartender peddling drugs in old beer kegs. That could be something to be concerned about. Terrible for the quality…"

"And yet you spent the better part of the day there," Molly said, choosing to ignore his interest in illegal drug quality.

"As I said, the flat was dull. It was the best way to find out if the network extended beyond what you have seen. And to make sure… you came back all right."

His chin tilted up nonchalantly as he spoke, his hand pressing firmly into her back. Molly smiled at his failed attempt to downplay his protectiveness, knowing what he was feeling was probably still foreign to his brain. It was taking her a great deal of effort to remember that it was all real and she had been aching for it much longer than Sherlock had.

He led them to her motorbike, parked a safe distance from the pub, and took the driver's position, throwing a smile at her as she climbed on behind him. It melted her heart and almost made her forgive him for neglecting to bring the helmets with him; something she planned to nag him for later. For the moment, she wrapped her arms tightly around his waist and reveled in his closeness as he drove them to the flat.

Five days passed with very little changing in the daily routine for Molly. She was slowly permitted to see more of the facility out of necessity for her work. The changes coincided with the appearance of more and more workers in the building, as though her presence was the signal that the hive could hum to life again. She still waited for the moment when the scales tipped in her favor and she could bring solid evidence of their intentions to the table.

Sherlock waited for her without fail at the end of every day, convincing Agent Sullivan with a minimum of words that he was perfectly capable of handling her transportation. As the activity at the facility increased, so did the presence of individuals Sherlock could not dismiss as harmless at the pub. Molly wanted to beg him to stop loitering in the building, but she knew the futility of the effort without even trying. Once he was determined, there was little to be done to sway him otherwise, and her newfound importance in his life only increased his resolve.

Fortunately, their nights belonged only to them and brought the safety and reprieve that gave her the strength to keep going. Despite his revelation that he was not, in fact, uncorrupted, he still reacted to every sensation as though it were the first time he was experiencing it. Perhaps, in his mind, it was. The first time she had turned him on his back and slid down his body to taste him, he had looked like a man possessed. Everything paled to the way he looked at her when she positioned herself above him, drawing him to his release with the rise and fall of her body, giving every bit of his control over to her. If he never found the ability to say that he loved her, she had no need at all to doubt that he did.

On the sixth day, everything changed.

Molly was escorted into the largest room in the facility and came face to face with the sight of glass tanks, pipes, and all manner of hydraulic systems. In the center of the room, lab tables held an assortment of testing stations, vats of chemicals, and what she assumed were cultures of viable microbes. The smell of chlorine and disinfectant assaulted her nose.

Only one thought entered her mind. _Water_.

The most essential of all human needs, the substance on which all life depended.

And they were going to poison it with an untreatable onslaught of bacteria.

Was it even possible? How far had they gone in engineering the genetics? Would it even work in industrial nations? Did that even matter when so much of the world lay prone to untreated sources of water, vulnerable in the extreme?

Molly nodded numbly at whatever instructions she was given, somehow registering her task of submitting cultures to various chemical compounds through the whirlwind of questions and fears in her mind. The day passed in a haze.

Sherlock knew the moment he saw her, though he kept a neutral expression as she hovered near the front door of the pub. She fiddled with her mobile, pretending to call for a ride as she always did while she waited for him to vacate the corner booth he took to when he felt the pub was safe enough. Waiting until he was only a few paces away, Molly turned and headed for the sanctuary of the outside world, knowing Sherlock would be right behind her. As she passed through the door, she was forced to skirt around a dark haired man entering the pub, glancing up as she muttered an apology. He stared down coldly, holding her gaze for the span of a breath with his black eyes before sliding past her.

Feeling her stomach drop, she turned in time to see Sherlock lock eyes with the man before barely dodging the fist flying at his face. The man lunged forward with the momentum of the punch that did not land, and Sherlock threw his weight into the man's back, sending them both sprawling into a table just steps from Molly. The pub exploded in shouts, some cheering the fight on, others calling for order. Molly watched both men stagger to their feet and it suddenly registered that the dark haired man had turned his attention on her. Not waiting for him to regain his footing, she stepped forward and let her elbow fly into his face, connecting with a satisfying crunch before kneeing him in the groin and watching him crumple to the floor.

She looked up to see Sherlock staring at her, dumbstruck.

"Run!" she shouted over the commotion, waiting only to make sure he followed her command before turning and bolting out of the door.

She hardly had the bike into the street when she heard the squeal of car tires behind them. Not even bothering to look, Molly hit the accelerator hard. With the car between them and the route into the main part of the city, she turned them towards the road out of town, hoping speed and agility would be in their favor.

"Who was that?" she shouted over the rush of air.

"The man you saved me from in London," Sherlock shouted back. "Looks like he finally tracked us down."

"Fuck."

"Aptly said."

A gun firing sounded behind them.

The first shot fired from the car missed, but only just. She felt Sherlock let go with one hand, reaching into his trousers to pull out his weapon. Holding tighter with the arm still wrapped around her, he turned and took steady aim, firing off several shots. One bullet struck its target, sending the gun flying from their pursuer's hand.

Molly felt his chest lay flush against her back again, though he kept the gun in his grasp at his side.

They had reached the edge of the city limits, pushing out into open country. She knew the route well at this point, her heart thudding in her ears as the road stretched out before her and the means to their escape tantalizingly close. She sent out a thank you to the universe for luck being on her side for once. It had to be timed perfectly, but if she could get them across the railroad tracks that intersected the road and onto the other side…

The cargo train horn blared as it rumbled down the tracks.

"Molly…"

His voice was a low warning in her ear.

She pushed down the hesitation it caused, knowing if she faltered it could mean their lives.

"Trust me," she said firmly over the rush of wind.

The blast of the train horn resounded wildly, hurting her ears with its intensity. She felt his hands clench at the fabric of her shirt.

"Molly."

"Trust me, Sherlock."

She pressed on the accelerator with all her strength, sending them hurtling towards the tracks.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Oh hey guys - so I am going to try to get the next chapter posted right quick here as I leave for a backcountry trip in a few days and won't have access to my computer. Please don't murder me if I don't manage it! I will give it my very best!**

**Song o' the Day: "Ache" ~ James Carrington**

* * *

Sherlock was no stranger to toying with life and death, having done so on multiple occasions in his life. He could easily admit that he got a certain high from the exhilaration of cheating death. He enjoyed it.

Not being in control of the situation certainly heightened the experience.

Adrenaline rippled through his body and his heart may have skipped a few beats as Molly drove them closer to the tracks. His grip on her was like iron and he vaguely wondered if he was hurting her. The bike shuddered across the rails and he was certain he could feel the heat from the train engine against his cheek, the horn threatening to blow out his eardrums. He let out the breath he hadn't been aware he was holding as they shot onto the road on the other side, the train sliding between them and the car. He could hear the screech of tires as their pursuers narrowly avoided a fiery collision.

The only thought he could truly manage was that Molly was out of her mind doing something so insanely perilous.

Out of her mind and wonderful for it.

He smiled as he realized that it only made him love her more and it amazed him that the thought was not terrifying.

Molly did not stop driving for nearly half an hour (putting distance between them and the men hunting them or running from all of it, he wasn't sure) and the briny smell of the ocean grew stronger as they drove until they crested a hill and the blue-grey expanse of the sea suddenly rose up before them. A brisk wind hit his face and the scent was overwhelmingly fresh after so many days in the stuffy air of the pub. Molly brought the bike to a stop along the edge of the coastal road overlooking a long stretch of beach.

He watched her stand on the stunted coastal grasses, turning her face into the wind and looking out at the sun struggling to penetrate the clouds and mist, hitting the water in odd patterns and making it shimmer.

She was working her adrenaline down, as was he. Sherlock knew she had found something important, possibly what they had been waiting for to bring the entire investigation to a close. Beneath the emotion caused by those factors, he observed something else.

Nostalgia.

His brow wrinkled, looking for the reason for the odd sentiment.

"Family holidays?"

"Sorry?" she asked, looking over at him.

"Your sentiment for the seaside," he told her, stepping close to her side. Molly took a deep breath and returned her gaze to the water.

"My dad insisted on it every summer, even if money was tight," she said wistfully, her eyes turning up to the clouds. "I haven't been since before I left for university. I've always loved the way the sea looks with storm clouds moving in… the beams of sunlight coming through. The - "

"Tyndall effect," Sherlock said simultaneously with her. Molly's mouth turned up in a smile and she reached out to take his hand. He instinctively laced his fingers tightly with hers, feeling a bit like an awkward teenager at the innocent connection.

"They mean to poison the water," she said suddenly.

He looked over at her and her face had changed dramatically, worry in every bit of her expression.

"What?"

"The weapon they are building," she continued. "Genetically engineered aquatic microbes, resistant to medication and very possibly to the purification process. If it winds up in the wrong hands - "

"It could cripple a nation," he finished for her.

"You think it's possible?" she asked him, looking up into his eyes.

He realized she was looking for his validation of her findings. Not out of self-doubt, no, but because she knew he would be honest if he thought there was any chance there was fault in their reasoning. Seeking peer review, like the true scientist she was.

"I do," he told her soberly. "And you know what you've seen. I trust your judgment."

Molly squeezed his hand and reached into her pocket for her mobile, dialing quickly.

"Liam," she said. "We've got something."

* * *

The flat turned into a command center by nightfall with a small team of agents drilling Molly on every detail of what she had witnessed and heard, as well as the layout of the building. Her composure and professionalism were like nothing he had ever seen from her, her ease in working with the agents unparalleled by any moment he had shared with her in Bart's morgue. There was something close to jealousy creeping in on him as he watched her, mingling bitterly with regret, knowing the strength she was showing had been just beneath the surface all of this time. If only he had treated her with more respect, paid more attention to the talent that was now so obvious.

He interjected when it was called for, earning a look of warning from her when he almost let slip he had been inside the facility. He had no particular care if he brought trouble down on himself, but Molly did not deserve the reprimand. He found himself suddenly important in being able to identify all persons frequenting the pub who had clear connections to the network about to be taken down.

"Try not to preen too much," Molly murmured good-naturedly in his ear as the agents expressed their admiration for his skills. He tried not to shiver at the feel of her breath against his ear.

A task force was decided upon for the next day and the agents began gathering their things to prep. Liam lingered as the other left and Sherlock fought the urge to claim his territory somehow. He'd felt possessive of the people in his circle before, but never to the extent that he felt now as it became obvious that he was going to have to compete for Molly.

If he were a dog, his hackles would have been raised. It should have worried him more that he had been reduced to typical alpha male behavior, but he couldn't find it in himself to care.

"Your expertise has been sorely missed," Liam said, leaning against the kitchen counter as he fixed his gaze on Molly. "You sure you won't consider coming back permanently?"

She glanced at Sherlock, looking thoroughly uncomfortable.

"It's been an experience," she said carefully. "But no, I don't think it would be the right decision."

"You're in your element doing this, Molls," Liam pressed. "You always were. Lots of the old team are excited you might be back."

Molly shifted, giving a small smile of placation.

"I think she made it clear. Or weren't you listening?" Sherlock said, unable to keep his mouth closed any longer. Liam glanced at him, eyebrows lifting at Sherlock's steely expression.

"Think about it," Liam said, excusing himself and heading downstairs.

Letting out a sigh, Molly began neatening the mess of papers and water glasses that had been scattered through the kitchen during the evening.

"You didn't need to snap at him like that," she said, dumping the glasses in the sink. "I'm not going anywhere, you don't need to worry."

"Even with 'the old team' all waiting for you?" he asked with far more spite than he should have. "You jumped at the chance once before and the route you took certainly ensured you could easily stay. The nostalgia is truly touching."

"I did have a life before you, Sherlock, does it shock you to learn that?" she demanded, her nose wrinkling as her temper flared. "And yes, I had friends, and yes, I was good at my job – but I had my reasons for leaving it all behind. You don't need to feel threatened by any of it."

"Threatened? Who said anything about being threatened - "

"You didn't have to say anything, that lovely pissing contest between you and Liam spoke volumes - "

"Oh he enjoyed it, any man as bored with his wife as he is would enjoy the testosterone rush of trying to secure you in his life again."

"Could you not, please?" she said, forcing calm into her voice. "Could you not demolish every man who looks at me just because you think someone is trying to steal your toys?"

"My toys? You are not - "

"These are friends of mine, Sherlock. I have missed them. You could try being amiable for my sake."

Something in her choice of words stopped the retort that was forming on his lips. Friends that she missed. Friends that mattered enough to earn her defense of them. His thoughts trickled back to standing in her flat, absorbing the details of her life. The pieces slid into place in his mind and he looked at Molly with the clearest picture he had ever possessed.

"I was right about you."

"What are you talking about?" she asked quietly, distracted as she busied herself with cleaning up the papers scattered on the table.

"You were lonely," he said, voice thin. "But not for the reason I thought."

He watched her motions still and her eyes slowly come to focus on his. Waiting for his deductions, hoping that they would not bring the hurt and exposure they always did. He knew he would never do that to her again; hadn't planned on it since that day in Bart's when he had understood just how small and unimportant he had always made her feel. She was, truthfully, the strongest woman he had ever met. For her loyalty, her kindness, intelligence… giving up everything she knew.

And for what? Him?

"You were lonely because you walked away from an entire life that gave you fulfillment."

"I had a choice," Molly reminded him. "And I always had the option to leave. I did important work at Bart's in a field that I am, and have always been, passionate about. I did find friendships, you know, I was happy - "

"Did you find your fulfillment?"

She looked at him for a long moment, blinking heavily, and he felt himself being deduced with as much skill and clarity as he had ever managed. It set his nerves on edge to be under her gaze, knowing she could see right through him.

"What are you really asking me, Sherlock?"

"Your time at Bart's, Molly… with _me_… how could that have possibly made you happy? I was awful to you and yet you persisted. You said yourself you considered leaving. What on earth possessed you to keep trying?"

Molly's eyelids fluttered briefly as she looked down, bottom lip pulled between her teeth. In that moment, she looked very much like his mousey pathologist and the sight made his heart ache for the times he had just overlooked her without a single care.

"Be-because I was crazy about you," she said quietly, lifting her face to look up at him. "There wasn't a moment when I had to pretend how much… how much I care. I saw something amazing in you that I couldn't give up on. Mycroft wanted me to watch out for you, offer help. That was all. From the moment I met you, I knew there would be more. And I knew I would never deny you. You have to believe me, Sherlock… it was always real, you and I. Always."

She finished so quietly he had to strain to hear her, her gaze dropping again.

The feeling of her soft skin on his fingertips registered before he even realized he had reached out, tipping her chin up so that she would face him. He half expected to see the timid, lovesick expression he had grown accustomed to over the years; an idiotic assumption, he realized, as he was met with the fierce gaze of a woman who was stronger and better than he could ever hope to be.

Slipping his hand into the softness of her hair, he pulled her towards him and lowered his mouth to hers. She opened to him immediately, her arms wrapping tightly around his body. He kissed her deeply, knowing no other way to show her how much she meant to him. He silently hoped the ability to tell her would not elude him forever.

Sliding her hands away from his back, Molly reached up and grabbed the front of his shirt, dragging him with her as she moved towards the bed. Sherlock felt his pulse rise, the accompanying tingle in his skin more welcome than he ever thought it would be.

"I was right about you, too, you know," she murmured as she lowered them to the bed, pulling him down on top of her.

"Hm?" he hummed against her skin, kissing gently along her jaw.

"You do have a heart," she said, stroking his hair with her hand. "I'm glad I didn't give up on you."

"I don't deserve the loyalty you've given me, Molly," he said, his voice almost gravelly as he lifted his head to look at her.

"You are more deserving than you know, Sherlock," Molly whispered, pouring out the repressed devotion she felt for him, her hands sliding down to stroke the sides of his face. "There was nothing I wouldn't have done for you."

Sherlock lowered his mouth to hers again, not trusting his voice to say the right thing. He lost himself in her body, knowing that all too soon they would be on their way back to London and facing one hell of an inquiry from their little group about what had happened. If she really was coming back, they had a lot of explaining to do. Not to mention he would surely be eating crow once John found out their relationship was no longer strictly professional.

It was the calm before the storm, as the saying went, though there was little calm in the way he made love to her until the late hours of the night. When exhaustion thoroughly claimed them, Molly rolled to her stomach with a contented sigh and Sherlock rested his head on her back while he trailed his fingers along her torso. Her skin was nearly glowing in the moonlight, the easy rise and fall of her back soothing to him.

"Tell me what's in your head," she murmured into the bed sheet.

He knew it was not the clichéd 'What are you thinking?' Molly did not ask questions like that. Not anymore. She was giving him the sounding board he usually needed.

He drew his fingers over the skin on her sculpted arm, cheek resting in the space between her scapulae.

"Fortis et invictus," he said quietly, lips brushing her skin.

His head lifted slightly with her back as she let out a breath with her small laugh.

"You don't believe in heroes," she said lightly.

Of course she could speak Latin. Why did it even surprise him?

"I believe in what you've done for me."

* * *

Sherlock could practically feel the anxiety radiating off of Molly as they sat in the back of the government car, bringing up the rear of the task force. It was rare for him to be part of such a large operation; he was used to dismantling criminal networks solo, or with only John for backup. He would have been perfectly happy to concoct some way to take out the entire network inside the building if given the opportunity – it would have been a grand experiment to test his limits – but he was fully aware that it was neither the time nor the place.

Their car was ushered through after the first wave of agents went in, securing the compound with minimal resistance and gunfire. He reached over and took her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze as the car rolled to a stop. When exactly such gestures became second nature to him, he could not say. All he knew was that it made her feel better and that was enough for him. Her pulse calmed and her breathing evened out.

Still high strung, no matter how fearsome she was, he reasoned.

With the building being emptied of members of the network, Molly was allowed to lead Liam, Sullivan, and a number of other agents through the facility, ensuring every shred of evidence was preserved and properly handled.

He lingered with her as the team filed out of the room filled with hydraulics, her eyes taking in the odd glow of the tanks in the otherwise darkened room.

The magnitude of what she had prevented suddenly struck him.

Molly turned to him and gave a relieved little smile, her short laugh a touch hysterical as she ran a hand through her hair and started walking towards the door. He spared one more glance for the elaborate experiment and turned to follow.

The feeling hit Sherlock too slowly, spreading a coldness along the back of his neck that pulled his attention and dropped his face in dread. He turned in time to see a man, previously concealed, folded into the space behind the open door on the other side of the room, emerge into the fluorescent glow. He could just make out the shape of an impressive handgun rising through the air. Like the molasses restrictions of a dream, his vocal chords were too slow in working, his hand too sluggish in reaching for the pistol tucked in his trousers.

He wanted to scream when he saw the flash of the gun and the small, brunette head move into his line of vision, hands grabbing at his arms and pulling with unbelievable strength to drag him out of the trajectory. For all he knew, he did scream. It was lost in the uproar of agents flooding back into the room and gunfire, shouting, taking the gunman down.

The sharp rip of the bullet he had expected never came.

Instead, he felt the hands gripping his arms slacken and his eyes dropped to the horrifying sight of Molly's wide eyes, her face quickly turning ashen while crimson bloomed on her belly.

He went absolutely numb, his whole body trembling violently as he struggled to hold her while ripping the scarf from his neck.

"No, no, Molly, god please no," he pleaded desperately, pressing the scarf against her wound as he lowered them to the ground. Carefully, he pulled her against his chest, tucking a shaking hand along her neck to support her. She clung weakly to the front of his coat, her face pressed into the curve of his neck. "Why did you do that?"

His broken voice sounded foreign to his own ears.

"I told you, Sherlock," she rasped, her breath ghosting along the skin of his neck. "There's nothing I wouldn't do for you."

"You're going to be fine," he said firmly into her hair, pressing harder on the scarf and trying to believe his own words. His fingers sought a pulse on her neck when she didn't respond, reeling when it thrummed faintly under her skin. "Don't do this, Molly. Please… you can't. I already did this once, please don't make me do it again. I… Molly, please, don't you dare leave me…"

The paramedics had to pry her from his arms and he watched helplessly from the doorway as she was loaded hurriedly into the ambulance, his hand clinging loosely to the scarf soaked in her blood.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock felt his world collapsing around him. His mind could not process what had just happened. One moment, she had been standing beside him, whole, warm, safe, and the next… he could not make the connection, could not feel anything except the memory of her in his arms. The world had faded away and he had never been so unaware or cared so little for the details of anything except the woman who had just been taken away from him.

The siren of the ambulance blared suddenly and panic gripped him.

"Where are they… where are they taking her?" He stumbled over his words, his voice rising as he reached out to grab the arm of the nearest person. The helpless look the agent gave him infuriated Sherlock and he practically lunged at her. "Where the hell are they taking her?!"

"Sherlock."

Liam was at his side, pulling him away from the agent who quickly resumed her duties of securing the scene.

"My car," he said, pulling Sherlock towards the door. "We can follow them to the hospital."

It took everything in his power not to remove the driver and drive to the hospital like a bat out of hell. As it was, he felt the ambulance was moving too slowly and every soul in Ireland seemed to have decided to become an obstacle.

Finally – _finally_ – they arrived at Derry City's main hospital.

He did not even wait for the car to stop before leaping out. In the recesses of his mind, he understood that he would acquire no detailed information so soon after the arrival of the ambulance, but he still went straight to the admitting desk and nearly climbed right over it getting the attention of the nurse sitting there.

He just wanted to know one thing – alive or not alive. Alive, even if severely wounded, meant the possibility of continued life.

"The ambulance that just came in, the victim was Molly Hooper," he stated commandingly. "What was her status?"

"Sir?" The flustered nurse's hands hovered over her keyboard.

"You have access to the status of A&E patients, do you not?" Sherlock demanded, bristling with tempestuousness. The nurse nodded. "Molly Hooper. What. Is. Her status?"

The nurse began typing, looking up at him with eyes that were trained to be sympathetic.

"Are you family?"

"I really only need one piece of information from you: alive or DOA?" he said furiously, having no patience for the sympathies she was trying to force on the situation.

"It's of national importance."

Liam was suddenly at his side again, stopping the encounter from becoming any more turbulent with a flash of his government ID. The nurse swallowed and resumed her search for the patient admittance files. Sherlock could feel his heart thudding in his throat waiting for her response.

"Admitted with internal injuries sustained from a gunshot wound," she said quickly. "She'll be in surgery now."

The world righted the slightest bit.

"We can update you when we know somethin' more," the nurse continued, her Irish lilt a touch more serious since the appearance of the MI6 agent. "There's a waiting room on the second floor. Set yourself down there and I'll send someone up when I can."

Sherlock backed away from the desk, his hands flexing repeatedly at his sides as he hovered in the middle of the A&E waiting room.

Waiting. He was terrible at waiting. Terrible at inaction when he felt like he should be enforcing his own justice on every single member of the network.

"The gunman," he said suddenly, trying to find a focus for his fury.

"Dead," Liam answered quickly. He looked at Sherlock with an air of respect and a great deal of sadness, something Sherlock could hardly stand having directed at him in that moment. "I'm needed back at the scene. Will you be all right on your own?"

"You're not needed, but you are searching for a way to avoid the conflict of appearing too personally involved here," Sherlock deduced robotically. "To answer your inane question, yes, I will be fine on my own. Always have been."

He was vaguely aware of Liam walking away before he made his way to the second floor, easily finding the waiting room the nurse had directed him to. It was deserted except for a middle aged couple huddled in the corner, embracing over the arm rest barrier of the standard hospital chairs. Soft crying hit his ears and he was reminded of standing in the hall at Bart's with Mycroft, staring impassively at another couple receiving grim news of a family member and wondering what the point was for the sorrow.

It was not that he was incapable of the emotions. If anything, it was an overabundance of fervor he had been forced to fight against his entire life, constantly reprimanded as a child to temper his feelings. Where Mycroft had encased his heart in ice, his arguably normal emotions hidden under a layer of bitterness, Sherlock was forced to deny his emotions existed in order to function as he wished to intellectually.

Now it was Molly – who had already been ripped from his life once – and he understood with unexpected lucidity.

She had thrown herself in front of a bullet for him without a thought. He should have been quicker; he should have _known_ there was another presence in the room. He felt his failure begin to overwhelm him, knowing Molly was fighting for her life because he had not done enough to protect her.

This was not happening. He couldn't focus, his head spinning and his hands shaking as he dragged them through his hair. Elevated heart rate. Shallow breath, not enough oxygen.

He was having a panic attack.

Not possible. His body did not succumb to those physical weaknesses.

And yet the symptoms did not lie.

He backed against the wall of the room, sliding down to sit on the floor and forcing air into his lungs. Reaching into his pocket, he fumbled for his phone, dialing the number he knew by heart and not caring if it spoiled some grand plan Mycroft or anyone else in the government had for the situation. As far as he was concerned, everyone in the world could fuck off until he knew that Molly was all right.

"Sherlock, my god, are you okay?"

"John…"

"Where the hell have you been? Mycroft said you got yourself into some sort of trouble and it wasn't safe to contact you, but you bloody well could have let us know - "

"John - "

" – if you were okay. We've been worried sick."

"John, she's been shot." His voice broke and he felt the first tears start to sting his eyes.

"Who?" John asked after a pause, confused.

"Molly."

For several long moments, Sherlock heard nothing but silence and his body vibrated with how alone he felt. Why wasn't John saying anything?

"Sherlock…" his friend finally said carefully. "Molly's… gone. Are – are you sure you're okay? Is there someone with you I can talk to?"

Oh god. Of course. Stupid.

"No, John, she's alive," he said. _God, please, let her be alive_. "But she's been badly hurt… I can explain everything when you get to Derry."

"Derry? Is this a joke, Sherlock?" John exclaimed.

"Mycroft can make the arrangements for you and Mary," Sherlock said, his voice heavy as he worked against the lump rapidly forming in his throat. "Please, John…"

"Okay. Okay, soon as we can."

* * *

Sherlock did not often use his mind palace for self-soothing. It was a tool, one that was kept sharp for cases and other pertinent information that aided his daily life. Personal details about the people in his life were filed away on an as needed basis. It just so happened that the past week and a half had seen a great need to store a wealth of personal details about Molly.

He indulged in those details like the addict he was, giving no regard to the catatonic image he presented to the strangers around him as he remained on the floor, leaning against the wall of the waiting room.

The hours that passed did not register until he heard the familiar voice of John breaking through his thoughts.

"Sherlock? You okay?"

"How long has it been?"

"Since you called," John paused, looking down at his watch. "Four hours."

Sherlock could see the surgeon's mind in John working out the implications of four hours without news. Grim, but not without hope. From his position kneeling in front of Sherlock, John glanced up at Mary who had taken a seat in the chair next to the detective. She looked very much liked wanted to embrace him.

He hoped she wouldn't. The contact would undo him.

"Is she really alive?" Mary whispered, as though saying it too loudly would break some spell.

Sherlock gave a curt nod. To vocalize a confirmation seemed too much, the uncertainty of what defined 'alive' a harsh unknown in his mind.

Mary finally reached out and gave his shoulder a comforting pat before standing up.

"I'm going to go find us all a strong cuppa," she said, sliding a loving hand briefly through John's hair as she walked away.

Sherlock took good note of the gesture and the resulting ease in John's face. Such things had long gone unnoticed in his observations. Now, he simply wondered if he possessed the same look when Molly touched him.

John shifted from the floor and took Mary's vacated spot.

"You going to tell me what happened?" he coaxed.

"Would you believe she's an operative with MI5 and we've just stopped a massive biological weapons threat?"

"That's… ludicrous, Sherlock, tell me what's really happened."

"She's an operative with MI5 and we've just stopped a massive biological weapons threat."

John blinked at him, his expression wary, as he no doubt waited for Sherlock to mock him for being so gullible. Sherlock stared back, too drained to bother with any remarks about his friend's doubts.

"You're serious," John finally said.

"Good of you to notice."

"Holy shit," John muttered, dragging a hand over his face. "That's why Mycroft wouldn't let us contact you. He knew the whole bloody time. Probably even supplied the body double. You lot are getting entirely too good at that, if it was able to fool you… hang on… tell me, please, tell me you did not know."

"I did not, John," Sherlock affirmed, looking down at his hands clasped over his knees.

"Right. Right, of course you didn't, you were pretty torn up. Even if you won't admit it," John conceded, taking a deep breath. His brow furrowed and he looked down at Sherlock. "Except… you weren't nearly this torn up. Which doesn't make any sense… unless…"

Sherlock's jaw tightened, the desire to let as little of his feelings show as possible tensing every muscle in his body. It was far too late, though. His emotion laden phone call had spelled it out for John easily enough, even if it took him much longer than it would have taken Sherlock to figure out. John opened his mouth to continue, but stopped when he saw Mary walking back, balancing three cardboard cups of tea in her hands. He blinked once and looked back to his friend, his face suddenly drawn in deep concern.

"You're doing far better than I would," John said quietly, standing up to help his wife.

Sherlock swallowed hard, the unintentionally tender words almost too much for him to bear.

"Tell us what's happened," Mary said gently, placing the tea beside him.

He looked up at the ceiling, steeling his resolve.

"Pay attention and don't interrupt," he said, doing his best not to sound cross. He had called for them, after all. "I'm not exactly in the mood to repeat myself."

* * *

The tea had gone cold by the time a doctor sought him out. To his benefit, the woman was succinct.

Damage to the kidney, liver, and surrounding muscle and tissues. Nicked large intestine. Hemorrhaging that had been stopped, but she had lost blood.

She was alive. She was breathing on her own. Would he like to see her?

The trio hovered outside the glass partition of the recovery room. Molly was tucked under the white hospital blankets, a host of tubes and monitors radiating from her body. The nasal cannula was the only equipment obscuring her face and he wanted nothing more than to rush to her side and feel the soft warmth of her skin under his lips. She looked so incredibly small.

"Good god," John breathed, staring through the window. "That is Molly."

Mary was clutching his arm, tears silently streaming down her face.

As though sensing Sherlock's hesitation to act with an audience, John gently tugged at Mary's hand and began to lead her away.

"We'll let you…" He gestured to the room and gave Sherlock an understanding smile.

Considering how much time he spent at Bart's, Sherlock truthfully hated hospitals. The smell, the angst, the plebian disrespect for a profession that was shackled by the limits of science. Miracles were expected where modern medicine, however advanced and impressive, could only do so much.

For Molly, it had done what was needed.

He sat gently on the edge of the bed, mindful of the monitors and IV. He brushed his fingers against hers, hopeful for a moment that she would wake up at his touch and he could be assured that she was all right. When she didn't, he reached up and let his hand caress her cheek before burying his face into her hair, searching for her scent under the smell of plastics and hospital chemicals. His fingers trailed down to the soft skin below her jaw, carefully finding the comforting thrum of her pulse and latching onto it like a lifeline.

"Thank you for staying, Molly… and I promise, I will stay with you."


	14. Chapter 14

**"Close Your Eyes" ~ Michael Buble**

**All the kudos to MizJoely for the beta work**

* * *

Fuzzy. Everything was fuzzy. Mind, body, hearing – all a giant ball of fuzz that she could not seem to focus on any particular thing. She knew she heard sounds, but she could not pinpoint their source or seem to get her brain to tie two thoughts together long enough to figure out what she was hearing. The struggle to open her eyes was immense, feeling as though her eyelids weighed a good ten pounds. She tried opening her mouth to catch the attention of anyone who might be near (she could hear voices clearly now, there must be someone near) and found that her lips and tongue were like a desert, her throat parched.

She began to register the feeling of pressure on her hand, her fingers confined by something warm wrapped around them. Fighting against the weight of her eyelids, she overcame the obstacle and her eyes opened to what seemed like blinding light. Blinking heavily, she gradually adjusted to the brightness and could make out a set of eyes the color of the ocean looking back at her.

Sherlock.

Molly squeezed his hand with the little strength she had, the memories of what had happened flooding back to her. Her mouth opened again to speak, her voice catching in her throat as she felt a straw laid at her lips. Closing her mouth around it, she sucked in the cool water and felt immediate relief.

"Thank you," she said, voice hoarse.

"You were intubated," Sherlock said gently, pressing the cup into her hand. "A sore, dry throat is to be expected."

"Your perspicacity is astounding as ever," Molly said groggily as she took the straw between her lips again, drinking gratefully. Sherlock smiled at her.

"Heavily sedated and you still manage vocabulary that makes me want to take you to bed."

"I have doubts that will be happening anytime soon," she replied, returning his smile in a slightly woozy manner. Though the drugs coursing through her were blissfully numbing, she could still feel the uncomfortable pull of the muscles in her stomach, settling and rebuilding after being torn apart by a bullet and, she correctly assumed, subsequent surgery.

"Waiting will not be a hardship," he murmured, brushing the hair away from her face and tucking the strands gently behind her ear.

The quiet moment was ended when Molly's doctor and an assisting nurse entered the room, alerted by Sherlock pressing the call button near her bed. It was a flurry of monitor checks, vision tests, poking and prodding and general fussing about her bandages that Sherlock respectfully turned away from, but he never left the room. For that, she was thankful. His presence put her at ease amidst the medical procedures.

At long last, her doctor appeared satisfied and adjusted the flow of the IV before leaving the room. Sherlock resumed his position on the bed and laid his hand gently against her cheek, looking as though he were trying to hold back a beaming smile at the sight of her and only barely succeeding.

She reached up and cupped his hand in hers, leaning into his palm. If he was behaving with such levity, it no doubt meant that the danger was over for her and everyone else involved. But she needed to know for sure.

"Tell me," she said, leaving no room for argument or the excuse that she was too weak at the moment.

Sherlock stared at her for a beat, assessing her mental state. He brushed his thumb against her cheek once more before dropping his hand away and resting it on her leg.

"You've been out for two days. In that time, the whole operation was uncovered and shut down. They found connections to a terrorist cell in Pakistan. They had some large plans for the results of those experiments. All brought to a giant halt now, obviously." He paused and looked at her with eyes that seemed intent on reading her very soul. "Your doctor seems very pleased with your recovery from the surgery. She doesn't anticipate any long term problems."

Molly nodded and glanced away briefly. Her hands shook slightly with the news, incredibly grateful that no harm had come to anyone else. When her gaze returned to meet his, the intensity of his eyes had not lessened.

"You stepped in front of a bullet for me," he said soberly.

"I did."

"Do you have any idea how foolish and risky that was?"

"No more than jumping off a building."

"Some subtle differences do exist," he reminded her with a small smile. "But I promise not to do it again if you will."

"Promise."

Sherlock leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers as he slid a hand gently along her cheek.

"You saved the world, Molly Hooper."

A slight tilt of her head brought her lips to his and he kissed her gently but soundly.

"Well that's a sight I never thought I'd see."

Sherlock pulled away from her abruptly and Molly was greeted with the beaming faces of John and Mary.

"Oh you're here," Molly said gratefully, holding out her hand in invitation for them to come further into the room.

"Yes, they are here," Sherlock said with an annoyed raise of his eyebrows as he slid away from her, yet still keeping a possessive presence on the end of the hospital bed.

Mary immediately took Molly's proffered hand and kissed her cheek while John deposited a vase of carnations on the bedside table. Sherlock looked at them with a bit of irritation.

"Could you have picked a cheaper bouquet of flowers, John?" he asked in a bored tone.

"They were the only ones left," John replied tightly. "The room needed some color."

"If you're suggesting that I'm not up to your standards when it comes to ridiculous gestures to the infirm, may I remind you that she has been unconscious for two days," Sherlock replied. "She wouldn't have even seen them."

Molly exchanged a look with Mary as the two watched their boys argue like brothers.

"That is just… actually, no, that's exactly you," John said with a shrug before leaning down and giving Molly a quick kiss on the forehead. "Very good to have you back. He was rotten without you around."

Molly smiled as she saw Sherlock roll his eyes, the slight flush on his neck giving him away. When her gaze landed on John and Mary's faces again, she felt tears begin to well in her eyes. The drugs made her emotions take a lovely roller coaster ride in the span of a few seconds.

"I'm so sorry," she said softly, reaching out for Mary's hand again. "I'm sorry to put you through what I did."

"Oh darling," Mary comforted, sitting on the edge of the bed. "We understand. Sherlock explained it all to us."

"We're just glad you're all right," John added. "And that he didn't manage to drive you mad with his oh so charming behavior."

"He came close a few times," Molly told him with a renewed sense of relief. She glanced at Sherlock and caught him gazing at her, his expression neutral but for the glint in his eyes she now recognized as love. The smile she gave him was filled with just as much affection.

John cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows.

"It was cute, now it's just a bit strange," he said with a slight shake of his head.

"I think it's very sweet," Mary said, smiling at Molly.

"Saccharine," Sherlock muttered. Molly gave him a playful nudge with her foot.

"You're lucky to have her, you git," Mary chastised jokingly as she stood up. "Visiting hours are almost over, are you coming back to the hotel with us this time or refusing to budge again?"

Molly looked at him and could clearly see the exhaustion in his face, the slight droop in his posture. Had he really been standing vigil in her room for two days without sleep? Judging by the questioning look in his eyes, he was not entirely sold on the idea of leaving her alone.

"Get some rest, Sherlock," she told him, feeling fairly drowsy herself. "I'll be fine."

John and Mary waited at the door while Sherlock stood at her side, clearly deciding on his opinion of public affection. She suppressed a smile at his adorable discomfort.

"I'm fairly positive I already scared off all of the incompetent staff from your care," he finally said quickly. "But if that should cease to be the case, simply call and I'll make sure it doesn't stay that way."

With that, he leaned down and planted a soft kiss to her lips before stepping back, turning his coat collar up and moving towards the door. The feel of his kiss made her wish he was staying, but she could already feel the increased dosage of her IV drip kicking in and knew she would rest better without the distraction. She smiled again at John's conflicted expression.

"Yeah. Bit strange," he said as Sherlock fell in step with the couple. "You're not going to go all starry eyed on us, are you?"

"I never complained about your behavior with all those women you brought to Baker Street."

"You did nothing _but_ complain."

"What does he mean, 'all' those women, John…"

"Thank you very much, Sherlock, you can shut up now."

Molly drifted happily into sleep, listening to the receding voices of the people she loved most in her life.

* * *

Three days later, Sherlock was lounging in a visitor's chair by the window of her room as a nurse went over post-op instructions for Molly to follow when she returned home. Her hospital stay would officially end the next day and she could not have been more thrilled. Sixteen more hours and they would all be on a ferry back to England. Not that she was going stir-crazy; she had actually been soaking in the time to sit quietly and let her body recover, reading an embarrassing amount of celebrity magazines and indulgent novels.

Sherlock, on the other hand…

If he didn't land a case the moment they arrived in London, she thought she might fabricate one just to get him outside. He had been nothing but caring to her, uncharacteristically catering to her every need, but hopelessly impatient with most everyone else. Not to mention his pent-up energy was making her antsy.

"You can return to work in fourteen days, just no heavy lifting," her nurse told her, coming to the end of the list.

"No corpse lifting for you," Sherlock quipped from his spot, staring absently out the window. "Pity. I know you'll miss that part."

"Stay away from acidic food and drink," the nurse went on, having long ago begun to ignore every interjection at Molly's insistence. "Coffee, citrus, anything that might upset the tummy. And finally, no, ah… no strenuous activity for a month."

The silence that followed was so unexpected that it caused both women to look over at Sherlock, anticipating a sarcastic remark. He turned a leveling gaze on both of them.

"The euphemism was perfectly clear. No intercourse for a month," he said testily.

If Molly hadn't known him better, she would think the tone was a reaction to the news. As it was, they had already discussed the situation and Sherlock had made it abundantly apparent that, while he looked forward to spending intimate time with her again, his relationship with her did not hinge on that aspect.

"He's lucky he's handsome," her nurse muttered, leaning in as she stood up from her seat.

"You have no idea," Molly replied conspiratorially.

The exchange was met with a disgruntled sound from across the room. Molly looked over in time to see Sherlock slouch down further in the chair and rest his chin on his fist. The nurse left her with the packet of instructions and a look of encouragement. As soon as she was gone, Molly laced her fingers together and stretched her arms out, flexing her back in an attempt to relieve the muscles of the discomfort of five days relegated to a hospital bed. She glanced over at him again and was met with the somewhat wistful look that had been appearing on his face from time to time over the last few days. She loved that look.

"We were just teasing, you know," she said gently.

"I do know," he said, standing up and straightening out his jacket.

"Are you sure? You seemed just a tad put out."

"Quite sure. Now then," he said, eyes widening momentarily as he yanked her charts from the bin at the end of her bed. "Let's talk about the fact that your full name is, indeed… Margaret."

"You've been reading my charts… wait, you didn't know my full name?" she asked, nose wrinkling in disbelief.

"You already had a perfectly suitable moniker," he explained, gesturing to his head. "Why complicate it with official birth documents. Although I am very intrigued by your middle name…"

"Give it here, Sherlock," Molly snapped, holding out her hand.

He bit back the smile at how indignant her face had become.

"Must've been a family name," he ventured, seating himself casually in the chair next to her bed and just out of reach.

"You hand it over or I swear I will never let you near my knickers again," she threatened.

Sherlock surrendered the charts, but not without a small smirk. He folded his hands over his stomach as he settled back in the chair, watching her hug the charts to her chest.

"I always thought Amaryllis was a lovely name," he said, overly nice about it. "Margaret Amaryllis Hooper."

"It's a sight better than _Vernet_."

It was Molly's turn to smirk as Sherlock suddenly scowled.


	15. Chapter 15

**Thank you so much for keeping the reviews coming, the feedback still helps a lot! I'm glad you all are still enjoying it :)**

**More music for ya: "Still Into You" ~ Paramore**

* * *

"It's really not necessary."

"You'd be much better off, Molly. It makes no sense for you to be alone while you're recovering."

"My things are still at my place… Mycroft handled it, do you really think I'd let my flat go?"

"Bring what you need for the time being, John's old room is unoccupied, it can all go there if it fits nowhere else."

"I don't want to get in your way."

"John!" Sherlock snapped, pointing an accusatory finger at Molly. "Appeal to her better senses. Please."

John looked up from the newspaper he had been reading and across the compartment at Molly. The four of them were on a train back to London where Sherlock hoped to immediately deposit Molly at Baker Street before securing her old post at Bart's. He waited somewhat patiently for his friend to talk some sense into her about the arrangement.

"Hm?" John furrowed his brow for a moment before he caught up to the conversation. A look of understanding crossed his face. "Oh, ahm, Molly – Sherlock wants you to live with him at Baker Street and he's using your recovery as a front."

Mary snickered and John went back to his newspaper. Sherlock fought back the urge to pop him one. Mostly because John was correct. It had come to his attention that he had no desire to end his proximity to Molly simply because the drama of her assignment was over. It would be good to have another presence at Baker Street again and, more importantly, he wanted her there. He saw no point in delaying what was an inevitability: she had probably already fantasized about it and, seeing as how she was the only woman he had ever _wanted_ to live with, he reasoned that it made no difference whether it happened immediately or in a year.

Risking a glance at Molly, he found her looking at him with a slightly amused, yet hopeful, expression. He gave her a nearly imperceptible nod of acquiescence and she smiled, reaching out to lace her fingers with his. Her hand felt so good in his that he didn't even bother to appear annoyed by the display. That was yet another thing he had to grow accustomed to - how little he minded showing affection for her now that it was not just the two of them holed up in a cramped flat.

He had almost lost her twice and he would be damned if he started caring what other people thought of his behavior now.

They bid goodbye to John and Mary at the station in London with Molly promising an outing soon. She pressed John to start accepting case offers as soon as possible, insisting she did not need someone with her at Baker Street at every waking hour. Sherlock understood her motivation completely: as much as he wanted to be with her, to protect her at every moment, he would eventually grow restless and she knew it. The excitement of waiting mysteries would find him again, and this time he would have the great comfort of knowing she would be there to help him.

At Molly's insistence, they took a cab to her old flat in order to let her pack a few bags of belongings. It wasn't until the car pulled up to the building that he realized he should have prepared himself for returning to the building, for retracing the steps that had started everything. For reliving the feelings that had made so little sense at the time but had since become unmistakably clear.

Molly moved quietly about the flat, gathering clothes and toiletries, as well as a few books and personal items. Sherlock pulled her suitcases from the cupboard, laying them on her bed for her to fill. It didn't take long for him to drift back out to the main room. The carpet had been replaced, but other than that, everything was the same as the last time he had been there. He had never been able to successfully delete the memory of the sight of 'her.' Being here now, watching her carefully select the items she liked the most or needed, he hoped he could easily replace the memory.

"Okay, I think that's all for now," Molly told him, emerging from the bedroom, taking one last turn through the room. "It shouldn't be too heavy, I hope you don't mind carrying them both. Knowing you, we should probably make a stop at Tesco before the day is over - "

He stilled her movements by placing his hands on either side of her face, bringing her in quickly for a deep kiss. She let out a surprised squeak before leaning into him and bringing her hands to his chest, her fingers curling around the lapels of his jacket. It was the first time he had been able to kiss her this way in nearly a week, without nurses appearing out of nowhere or John making comments or Mary acting like she heard wedding bells. Just Molly and him and nothing but an understanding only they shared.

She ended the kiss gently and looked up at him, brown eyes wide and searching.

"What was that for?" she asked quietly.

"Improved location association and sense memory," he answered, probably too honestly. It was what he needed, though. She responded by standing on tiptoe and pressing her mouth to his again, the kiss quickly intensifying and bringing a delightful warmth to his body.

"Wish we could give the place an even better association," she murmured against his lips.

Sherlock furrowed his brow and gave her an amused smile.

"That… is somewhat morbid, Molly."

"I didn't know there was such a thing as too morbid for Sherlock Holmes."

"I do have some standards."

"Twenty-nine days and we can find out," she said with a mischievous smile that made him swallow.

It was evening by the time they were settled at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson had been so pleased to see him all in one piece after the way he had suddenly disappeared with little more than a phone call from Mycroft that it took her nearly a minute to notice Molly hovering uncertainly in the doorway. The woman had rightfully shrieked at the sight before pulling Molly into a hug befitting a mother recovering her child. Sherlock promptly informed her that Molly would be staying at Baker Street while she recovered from being shot. Possibly longer.

"Shot?" Mrs. Hudson gasped, looking at Molly with great concern. "Oh you dear girl. What on earth have you two been up to? No, don't tell me now, you need your rest. Plenty of time for that later. There's the room upstairs… if you'll be needing it…"

"We won't," Sherlock told her, the corner of his mouth turning up as he placed a hand at the small of Molly's back to guide her upstairs.

He nervously watched her begin to prepare a meal of spaghetti and meatballs, up until the point she began filling the pot with water. Gently moving her out of the way, he took over the cooking and tried not to appear too offended when she gave him a surprised look.

"My parents may not have cooked, but that doesn't mean I didn't learn," he told her. "As long as you're not expecting Le Cordon Bleu, it should be fine."

After dinner, they settled in front of the fire, Sherlock finding distraction in a philosophical text and Molly lost to a novel. He took a moment from his reading to absorb just how pleasant it all was. Almost as though the last two months had never happened. Once they started the process of recovering her position, it would be a storm of drama. He knew that all too well. Fortunately, her life lacked the publicity he had suffered from and the transition would be much easier. She had requested that no one but John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade know the exact details of what had transpired. Everyone else would be entitled to an abridged version, one that did not do enough to highlight the enormous part she had played, in his opinion.

Her job as an agent would be ended once it all came to light. Just as well, he reasoned. She was thoroughly determined to be done with it.

As if on cue, he heard the front door open and close, followed by the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

"Ah," Sherlock said, looking up to see Mycroft appear in the doorway. "Right on time."

Molly looked from Sherlock to his brother, clearly not expecting the visit. Mycroft strode to the middle of the room, coat slung over one arm and umbrella in the other. He smiled as warmly as was possible.

"Doctor Hooper," he said. "I'm quite glad to see you recovered so well. Your work over the last several weeks has been exceptional. I can personally assure you, you will be honored for it and compensated handsomely."

Sherlock caught her eye, seeing the surprise at Mycroft's words.

"Compensated?" she repeated.

"Handsomely," Mycroft insisted, looking pleased with his offer.

Molly considered him for a moment before sitting up a bit straighter, her expression serious.

"Actually, what I'd like is my old position at St. Bart's back," she told him firmly. With a quick glance at Sherlock, she added, "Without reporting to MI5."

Mycroft looked between the two of them.

"You no longer wish to be with the agency?"

She shook her head, an apologetic smile touching her lips.

"Your talent will be missed," he said with a resigned shrug. "But I see no reason to deny the requests."

"She'll take the compensation, too," Sherlock interjected, looking over the top of his book at Molly. She gave him an amused smile.

"I'm glad to see you enjoyed the accommodations in Ireland," Mycroft said, tucking the umbrella under his arm in preparation to leave.

Sherlock's face dropped in consternation at the words. He barely caught the blush flooding Molly's face, her eyes widening suddenly, before his own eyes flashed at his brother. Mycroft looked all too delighted with himself.

"Goodnight, dear brother," he said with a cool smile. "Goodnight, Molly. Do look after him. I trust government orders are no longer needed for that."

"She'll still take the compensation," Sherlock called after him as he left the flat.

* * *

Several days later, they were standing in the hall of St. Bart's morgue, a completely stunned Mike Stamford and long suffering looking Lestrade standing in front of them. The shortened version of the story had spilled out somehow between them, with Sherlock emphasizing the fact that she would be ready to return to Bart's in a week's time. Stamford spread his hands wide, mouth hanging open for a moment as he searched for words.

"I… that, that would be very good. Very good indeed," he finally stammered, scratching his head as he wandered away to take care of the details.

Lestrade stared at them, looking as though he were waiting for the punch line to a practical joke. Putting one hand to his hip, he raised the other, gesturing vaguely between them.

"If one more person fakes their death," he muttered. "Just one…."

Clamping his mouth shut, he moved forward suddenly and wrapped Molly in a hug. Sherlock's eyes narrowed almost involuntarily, the possessive pang still coming unbidden. It would apparently be a while before the sight of another man touching her would cease to cause that reaction.

Lestrade released her and gave her a firm nod before turning to walk away. He hadn't gone two steps when he turned back with an inquisitive look.

"Just for the record," he started, pointing a finger at her, then Sherlock. "You tricked _him_? Properly fooled him?"

"That's not really what's important here," Sherlock snapped. Lestrade held his hands up in surrender.

"Just for record," he said with a smile as he walked away.

"Oh calm down," Molly chided at the look on his face, giving his arm a light swat. "You're still the world's best consulting detective."

The news of Molly's adventures spread like wildfire through Bart's; leave it to a hospital staff to embellish the rumors not only about her position with the government but also with Sherlock. He could barely walk through the halls anymore without a small group of female employees smiling and giggling as he passed by. One snide remark usually reassured them that he had not suddenly become Prince Charming, at least not to anyone outside of Molly.

Cases began rolling in quickly and life seemed to return to normal once he was able to walk into the morgue and find her waiting for him next to a body bag on an autopsy table. It struck him as odd that that should be considered normal, but taking into account all they had been through, it seemed downright provincial.

She only asked one favor of him after their return to London. He did not hesitate to comply.

They sat quietly in the back of the cab as they drove to the cemetery, the flowers Molly had bought in a shop resting between them. The grave was easy to find, the headstone holding onto the shine of newly carved stone, especially next to the matching one that had been placed two years prior. Molly knelt down and placed the flowers against the stone, her hands coming to rest in her lap.

"I'm sorry we were too late to help," she murmured. Sherlock quickly clamped down his opinion of talking to the dead, the sorrowful look on Molly's face enough to keep him quiet. "You should know, in the end, you were the key to their demise. I hope you're at peace… and with him."

She glanced at the matching gravestone briefly and stood up, turning towards Sherlock. His heart palpitated a bit at the way she placed a hand along his jaw, leaning up to kiss him.

"Thank you for coming with me," she whispered.

Standing next to the grave of a woman who had suffered so much at the hands of the network they had undermined, he knew how lucky he was. It was time he truly showed Molly.

It wasn't until the weekly shift schedule for Bart's was posted that she began to suspect something. He knew it wasn't exactly subtle to ask Stamford to take her off the rotation for a long weekend; she was far too smart to think it an accident and, while they weren't necessarily keeping a countdown, she quickly noticed that it coincided with her thirty days coming to an end.

Sleeping next to her every night, smelling her shampoo and perfume drifting through the flat every morning, watching her curl up on the sofa wrapped in his dressing gown with a book propped on her knees, and, more than anything, kissing her and remembering the way her body felt was the most trying test of his control that he'd ever encountered. He knew she was struggling as well, having to extract herself from his arms, face flushed and breathing ragged, on more than one occasion with a look of extreme frustration. There were a few times he caught her eyeing his gun with a bit too much interest, undoubtedly contemplating a few moments reprieve from adrenaline. Fortunately for the well being of his wall, she had far more self-control than he did. If it weren't for the work, they would both be living under cold showers.

His plan encompassed more than the physical relief, of course. He'd never done anything of the sort for anyone before and the part of him that was still paralyzed by inexperience in relationships hoped desperately that she understood the importance.

At the very least, she did not question him when he told her to pack a bag, simply smiling and doing as he said.

He tossed their things into the back seat of the Range Rover he had rented, allowing Molly to settle comfortably into the passenger seat before setting off. If she had it figured out by the time they passed Bristol, she didn't say a word.

The late afternoon sun was bright and low in the sky by the time they reached the outskirts of Newquay. Sherlock easily navigated the GPS, pulling the car into the drive of a small cottage situated snugly in the dunes above the sea. It was, fortunately, just as it had appeared in the advertisement pictures: single story, natural light wood, large paned windows, with decorations of driftwood and shells scattered around – the epitome of seaside charm. Molly's jaw dropped, stunned into stillness as he shut the car off.

"Shall we?" he said, smiling at her.

He grabbed their bags and led her to the front door, opening it onto the main living area of the cottage. An airy kitchen with a skylight was to their immediate right, a counter extending to separate it from the dining space. The large country table was set to seat six, with more seashells and seaglass providing a centerpiece in hodgepodge designs. A doorway to the left led to the bedroom. The living room looked out a wide set of French doors and onto a porch overlooking the sea, a pot bellied stove sitting in the corner and framed by more windows. The afternoon sun filtered in through hanging window decorations of stained glass depicting sailboats, dolphins, and seahorses, scattering colored light onto the walls and furniture. It was lovely and cozy… and horribly cliché. His nose wrinkled a little as they walked into the living room.

"I'm noticing a motif here – mph!"

His words were cut off as Molly flung herself at him, arms thrown about his neck and mouth crushing against his. Staggering a bit in surprise, Sherlock managed to find his balance and wrapped his arms around her waist.

"You like it?" he asked.

"I love it," she replied, her eyes darkening and her smile wanton as she began backing him towards the bedroom.


	16. Chapter 16

**The time has come for the final installment. I would like to sincerely thank every last person who reviewed, followed, and favorited this story, the feedback was incredible.**

**And, as always, a heartfelt thanks to MizJoely, without whom I probably would have chickened out and not even published this story! **

* * *

Molly had only two thoughts going through her mind as she steered a slightly startled Sherlock towards the bedroom.

One was that she was going to spend the rest of her life with this man. Marry him, if he would abide it. Would they have the occasional row? Naturally. Would she banish him to the sofa for being an insensitive git from time to time? Of course. She knew all that and had known it would be part of being with Sherlock for as long as she had known him. If she was being honest, her temper wasn't always top form, either. They were well suited in that way.

All she knew was that no one had ever done anything this considerate for her in her adult life and she was certain beyond a doubt that Sherlock had never done anything like this for anyone before.

Which brought her to the second thought: every article of clothing on the man needed to come off. _Immediately_.

His coat had thankfully been abandoned in the living room, leaving her with the task of removing one of her favorite suits. He was wearing the blue shirt that looked stunning on him, obviously knowing she preferred it to the white ones. The jacket and shirt were gone in a minute and he quickly had his hands under her jumper, yanking it over her head in one swift move. Their knuckles bumped together as they both went for the other's trousers. Molly giggled and Sherlock pulled her closer by the hem of her jeans to start planting open-mouthed kisses on her neck while the rest of their clothes were shucked.

She backed him towards the bed and placed her hands on his shoulders, pushing him down until he was sitting on the edge of the mattress. His hands immediately wound into her hair as she kissed her way down the smooth skin of his chest, his eyes slitting in anticipation. A smile touched her lips as she hovered above him. The way he transformed when he was with her, the trust he placed in her hands – the trust she had regained, she reminded herself – left her thrilled.

His moan was light but his hands tightened tellingly in her hair as she lowered her mouth over him, lips and tongue sliding over the smooth, warm skin. A month of not being able to be with him had nearly been worse than the years of pining. Nearly.

One of his hands left her hair and sought support from the mattress, his hips beginning to buck into her. He sighed her name and she hummed in response, looking up at him.

"Unless you want this to end very abruptly, I would suggest you stop," he said huskily, clearly relieved when she pulled away with one final, teasing lick.

Sherlock reached out and grasped her hips, pulling her to her feet before reversing their positions. Sitting her on the edge of the bed as he knelt on the floor before her, he brought his mouth to her neck, sucking lightly as his hands roamed over her thighs and lower back. His touch was intoxicating. She wrapped her arms lazily about his shoulders, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck as his lips traveled down to her collarbone, nipping lightly before continuing to the sensitive skin of one breast, then the other, taking his time. As his head dipped even further, trailing kisses down her torso, he lifted one hand and gently pushed at her chest, encouraging her to lie back.

Molly's breathing hitched as her back hit the blankets, his mouth slowly traveling across her belly. She tried very hard not to become emotional as his lips lingered over the pink scarring on her stomach. Crying was not typically an attractive quality during sex. Fortunately, his lips paid homage for only a few moments before moving on, drifting low on her body.

It took her by surprise, as he had never done this before; she had assumed he was simply one of those men who was put off by it. It had been fine by her as his demonstrated methods had been more than adequate in their time together. Slinging her legs over his shoulders and gripping her hips, he pulled her to the edge of the bed. Perhaps she had been wrong.

She gasped and her body went liquid as his mouth found her center, his tongue flicking out tentatively as he explored her. Fingers gripping the blanket below her, Molly could feel herself growing wet at an embarrassing rate as he stroked her slowly, deliberately.

"Awfully eager, aren't we, Molly," he murmured teasingly against her.

"It's been a month, Sherlock," she said breathlessly, arching slightly on the bed. "And you are doing a fairly wonderful job."

"Am I?" he said with a touch of pride. "That is good to know."

"You've never done this before?"

"No," he replied, looking up at her with a simpering expression. "Having said that, I feel rather confident that it would go a lot better if I weren't talking. Stop asking questions."

Molly happily complied, her hands leaving the sheets to entangle themselves in his hair. He was an astoundingly fast learner, the tug of her fingers and her gasps and moans clueing him in to every spot that made her body ripple with pleasure. For several long, glorious minutes, all she could feel was his mouth hot against her, his tongue roughly caressing her flesh, and the blood in her veins throbbing between her legs. His fingers ran gently along her hips and her thighs, sending shivers through her skin, before moving to rub lazy circles inside her thigh, closer and closer to where she ached for him.

She felt him tease at her entrance before deftly sliding two long fingers inside of her.

Her eyes slammed shut and she whimpered. God help her, she actually whimpered.

The feeling had her light headed as he dragged his fingers along her swollen muscles, not missing a beat with his tongue. In just a few thrusts she was coming undone, shuddering around him as she cried out his name.

When she had recovered the ability to see properly, she looked down to find him staring at her rather smugly, his arm wrapped around her raised knee and his chin propped atop it.

"You seemed to rather enjoy that," he drawled.

"Solid ten," she breathed out.

"What?"

"Olympic scoring system… forget it, get up here," she laughed, grateful that he had the decency to wipe his mouth with his discarded shirt before moving up her body and resting his weight against her. She could feel him pressing into her pelvis, hard and warm, and the blood suddenly started tingling inside her once more.

"The bags," she said suddenly with a groan. In her earlier haste, she had forgotten to bring their bags into the room with them. They were a good twenty feet away – not an impossible trek, but mood ruining none the less.

Sherlock smiled at her and lifted his hand, popping one finger against the foil packet he held.

"Pocketed one before we even left London," he told her.

"You really are a genius," she said, running a hand through his hair. "Which is why I love you."

Everything froze.

It was ridiculous to be so afraid of speaking the words out loud; even more ridiculous to be afraid of his reaction. But it had been an unspoken understanding until that moment and for a few horrifying seconds Molly thought she had ruined it all. He stared down at her, his eyes suddenly deducing.

"You're scared," he stated simply. "Not of loving me, you've loved me for a long time."

"Not that, no," she muttered a tad defensively.

"Of what, then?" he asked, his voice low and intimate. "That I'll be angry you said it? Or that I won't say it back?"

Her eyes darted back and forth between his, not sure if he was actually looking for an answer. Truthfully, she wasn't sure she knew the answers to those questions.

Sherlock's face suddenly softened again and he lowered his head until his face was inches from hers.

"You never have to be scared of that, Molly," he murmured, placing a soft kiss to her lips. "You should know by now that I love you."

Her face broke out in a grin before she leaned up to kiss him fiercely. He responded instantly, slipping one arm under her to pull her tight, their bodies flush from head to toe. With an impressive amount of dexterity, he managed to rip open the condom packet without ever letting her go, nimbly rolling it on with one hand before enveloping her with both arms. Molly hummed with satisfaction and Sherlock groaned her name as he pushed into her, stilling for a few moments to enjoy the feeling of being joined again.

He started moving in her, thrusting with slow, firm strokes that felt achingly sweet. Her already sensitive flesh began to burn with the building pleasure. His movements were becoming quicker and she could feel him growing harder inside of her. A string of nonsensical 'yes's' and 'please's' left her lips as her hands anchored on his back and in his hair, the first wave of pleasure cresting in her body. Sherlock's hands gripped her back hard and he suddenly buried himself fully in her, the sensation causing her orgasm to rip through her as she screamed his name. He practically sobbed hers into the curve of her neck, his hips grinding gracelessly against hers.

The room was filled with the sound of their labored breathing for several minutes before Molly felt him begin to lift away from her. He collapsed on his side and let his forehead come to rest against her shoulder. Feeling far too blissed-out and lazy, Molly simply reached out to her side and grabbed the edge of the blanket, pulling it over them.

"We are going to have to do some laundry before we leave this place," she said with a satisfied laugh.

"Or just buy them new bedding all together," he suggested.

"What exactly do you have planned for this weekend?" Molly questioned, giving him a look of mock concern.

"Beyond what we just did, not a thing. Though now that I think of it, dinner would be an excellent idea."

"Um, Sherlock… did you bring anything? I didn't see an ice chest in the car." At his blank look, Molly pulled her mouth tight, trying not to laugh. "These houses don't typically come with food."

"Do they not?"

"No, not beyond the odd box of sugar or cooking oil," she giggled. "I think you got a bit too used to government comfort when we were abroad."

"This _is_ my first time doing this, Molly," he said, slightly wounded.

"It's not the end of the world," she reassured him, climbing from the bed to start getting dressed. "Quick trip to the shop and we'll be set."

"I always miss something," he grumbled to himself as he followed suit.

* * *

The next afternoon, Molly was tucked against the arm of the sofa, a mystery novel propped on her legs. The doors to the porch were open and a delicious breeze floated in, oddly warm for the time of year and carrying the sound of gulls into the house. They had returned a short time ago from a brief walk on the beach after spending the better part of the morning tangled in bed. It had been heavenly from the moment they walked into the house, but since she had taken to reading she had felt a shift in the atmosphere.

Molly could feel Sherlock's eyes boring into her from his position in the armchair and let out a sigh, though she was mostly just amused.

"Stop looking at it," she told him, pulling the book up in front of her face.

"Your hair only grows half an inch per month, do you know how abnormally slow that is, Molly?"

"Shut it."

_Don't giggle, Molly Hooper, can't let him know it's funny_.

"At that rate it'll be at least a year and a half before it reaches the length it was before."

"Are you charting it?"

"No, that would require keeping statistical data. I'm observing."

"Are you bored, Sherlock?" she asked gently, lowering her book to her lap.

"No, why would you say that?"

"Because you start to overanalyze little details when you're bored."

"I'm not bored," he said, his mouth turning down a bit petulantly. He considered her for a moment. "I'm just not used to this much inactivity."

"I'd argue that we've been very active."

He gave her a withering look.

"You know what I mean. Are holidays always this… placid?"

"What did you expect when you rented a house on the shore for three days? A murder investigation?" she asked, laughing a bit. At his serious expression, she sobered. "Look, if it's driving you that batty, we can go collect samples of macro algae from the tide pools to look at and I'll let you bring your scope in from the car… I saw it in the boot."

He looked at her with renewed excitement and leaned forward in his chair before standing.

"In a moment," he said. "For now, your hair - "

"Oh God," Molly groaned, running the fingers of one hand through the strands that, she thought, were coming along quite nicely. With her other hand, she lifted her book back up, attempting to block out his fussing.

"There are several options to speed along the process and promote growth, from what I've seen in my research. Plenty of natural options – coconut oil, fish oil, vitamins - "

"Pregnancy has been known to do the trick."

She heard a strangled noise emanate from him, though the book still blocked her view. Lowering the novel again, she couldn't keep back the smile at his positively horrified expression.

"Teasing, Sherlock."

"Don't. Make. Jokes, Molly."

The giggling could no longer be repressed, though she felt a bit of guilt as he waffled in the middle of the room, looking slightly green. He turned suddenly and headed for the open door.

"Where are you going?"

"Calling John," he stated in a huff.

"Don't expect any sympathy from him, he's in favor of the idea," she called after him, flipping the page in her book. "He's insisting on the name Hamish."

He was not on the porch for five seconds before he came barreling back inside, marching over to where she sat curled into the corner of the couch. Bracing his arms on either side of her, he leaned in with a look of intense revelation, his eyes lighting up.

"Our offspring would be absolutely brilliant," he stated, looking startled by his own words. Molly could only nod silently, completely gob smacked by the sudden turnaround. He held her gaze for a moment before pushing away and walking back towards the porch. "But they will not be named _Hamish_," he tossed over his shoulder as he walked outside.

Molly let out a breathless little laugh, stunned.

_Oh yes_, she thought to herself. _Absolutely going to spend the rest of my life with him._


End file.
